


Let Us Not Admit Impediment

by phoenixflight



Series: Marriage of True Minds [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Emotions, Explicit Sexual Content, Families of Choice, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Het, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlockary - Freeform, Love, Mary is a boss, Multi, OT3, OT3 FEELS, Polyamory, Post-The Empty Hearse, Season/Series 03, Sexual Fantasy, Snark, The Empty Hearse Spoilers, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesomes, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weddings, married people having good sex, mostly straight John, our boys are bad at emotions, sherlock is johnsexual, sort of threesomes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 45,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs John. John lights up around Sherlock. Mary loves her boys and thinks this is a lot less complicated than they are making it. </p><p><strike>Set right after TEH and before SoT.</strike> Fast turning into a bloody epic season three fix-it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I HAVEN'T SEEN SIGN OF THREE YET (aaaauuugh) so I don't know if this continues to be canon-compliant, but I WANTED THIS OT3 SO BAD I had to start this. There is more to come.~~
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT 3/15:  
> Sooooo, welcome to the madhouse!  
> So much thanks to everyone who has been encouraging and helpful as I flail around and throw ideas at you.

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments_ \- Wm Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

The news channel was playing a clip of Sherlock preening for the reporters, John at his side all puffed up and proud. Mary studied her fiancée’s pixilated face, tapping her finger against the rim of her wine glass. John’s whole demeanor changed when he looked at Sherlock. He smiled more in thirty seconds of grainy video footage, than he normally did in a week with her. 

Downstairs a door opened and shut and familiar footsteps sounded on the stairs. “I’m home!”  
Mary clicked the TV off and set down the remote as John came in, shucking off his coat. “How was your shift?” 

“The usual.” He ducked to kiss her. “I stopped at Tesco on the way back.”

“Ah, I meant to do that yesterday.” 

“It’s no trouble. I’m used to it.”’ 

Unfolding herself from the couch, Mary trotted after him as he lugged the shopping bags into the kitchen. “Heard from Sherlock today?” 

John chuckled. “Six texts. I think he’s done treading lightly around me.” 

“He’s missed you.” Mary perched on the edge of the table in the dining nook. “Wants your attention.”

“Yeah, he’s a bloody child. Always was.” Propping the fridge open with his hip, John started transferring the apples and lettuce to the shelves. 

“I think it’s sweet.” 

John grinned ruefully. “Well, you’re the one who said you liked him.” 

“And you’re the one who is absolutely mad about the man.” 

“Me- what- I am not-!” John spluttered. “Mary, we’ve talked about this!” 

“Yes. You and Sherlock were never lovers. I believe you. That doesn’t mean there was never anything between you. Emotions are complicated, John.” 

Scowling, he let the door of the fridge slam shut with a whumph. “I’m not gay.” 

“No. I would have noticed.” She quirked a crooked grin at him. “This has got nothing to do with sex. And, well, if it did, I might not actually complain.” The look she gave him made John flush. “This is about the fact that his death nearly killed you, but you want him enough to forgive him for that, and you’ve been happier than I’ve ever seen you since he came back.” 

John crossed his arms, stance belligerent. “What are we actually talking about?” 

“I love you John.” Mary padded over to lean against him, running her fingers through his hair. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known. That’s why I’m marrying you. You deserve everything I could possibly give you, and more.” 

He twitched a weak smile. “It goes for you too you know. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. You saved my life.”

“Just like Sherlock.” 

“That’s not-”

She raised a hand, cutting him off. “What do you miss about your life with Sherlock?” 

“You mean, what did I miss when I thought he was dead?” John gave her a bewildered look. 

“No, what do you miss now?” 

He shrugged. “I saw him just yesterday. You mean about living with him? Little things, I suppose. I would wake up from a nightmare and he would be playing the violin. The way he would smile when he thought something was more clever than usual. I always felt so bloody proud when I made him laugh. I don’t miss the fingers in the fridge all the time, mind you.” John grinned at nothing. “But after the first few weeks he never put the body parts on the same shelves as the food. He had his own way of caring, I suppose. I miss... being close to him. That’s all.” Leaning over, he pecked her cheek. “I wouldn’t give this up for anything though.” 

“We’d have to move someplace bigger.” 

“Sorry?” 

“Just thinking aloud.” She tugged him out of the kitchen and nudged him until he sat heavily on the couch, plopping down in his lap. “What if you could have all that again?” 

“I told you, I’m not going to give you up. If you think I’m going to leave you...” 

“No, no, I wouldn’t ever think that,” Mary soothed, pressing kisses to his forehead. “I mean, if you could have that, and this as well.” 

John leaned back to frown at her. “I’m perfectly happy just like we are.” 

“So am I.” She scratched lightly at the back of his neck. “You know, when I was at uni I had a friend who was dating two other girls. They had been together on and off for a while, and having another person just stabilized their relationship. The three of them are still together. We write Christmas cards to each other.” 

“Are you saying... what are you saying?” 

“I’m saying that I’m very happy with what we have, but if you wanted something more, I would be ok with that as well. I think it could be good for us.” 

“You mean... with Sherlock?” John’s nose wrinkled in disbelief. “He’s the last person to have a stable relationship, let alone two.”

“Do you think? He strikes me as very loyal, once he’s set his heart on something.” 

“I suppose that’s true. But you don’t want to live with the man. It’s a nightmare.” 

Mary glanced around the cluttered sitting room. The books on the armchair were definitely hers, and so were the paintbrushes and magazines on the coffee table. And the plate with crumbs, oops. And the discarded sweater, and the throw blanket crumpled up on the floor. “I imagine the clutter would sort of... meld together. You’re the tidy one with the patience of a saint.” 

“One of you was good practice for the other,” John grumbled. “I’m still not gay, you know. I really, actually do not want to kiss Sherlock. No matter what anybody else thinks.” 

“It’s not about kissing. Or sex. Or any of those things. At least, it doesn’t have to be.” Putting her mouth against his ear, she continued in a whisper. “It’s about knowing that he’s yours. Ours.” 

She felt the shiver that ran through him at that. His voice was half-hearted when he said, “What makes you think Sherlock would be interested anyway?” 

Mary petted him. “Oh, you leave that up to me.”  
~

Mrs. Hudson let Mary into 221 B. “Sherlock dear, Mary’s here to see you! Oh, Sherlock, you could put some clothes on,” she added when he strode in, dressing gown flapping around his legs. “There’s a lady visiting. It’s not decent.” 

“Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson, that will be all.” 

Shaking her head, she bustled back down the stairs. Mary shifted a plastic bag of human hair off an armchair and sat down, tugging off her scarf. Sherlock swung himself dramatically into the chair opposite. “Well?” 

“Can’t you guess?” 

He narrowed his eyes. “Flush on your cheeks, could be the cold, but doesn’t reach your nose or ears, more likely strong emotion. Slight smile, you’re pleased about something- unlikely to be something that already happened, as your morning was unremarkable; toast and jam for breakfast, had to sit next to a smoker on the tube. You are anticipating something pleasant then. Something you hope to get from me? Unlikely to be my charming company, but no indication that you need help with something. People don’t seek me out unless there’s something wrong, but you are not fidgeting or nervous and still smiling,” he frown. “What is it?” 

“It’s a puzzler, isn’t it? I didn’t expect you to guess.” 

He scowled. 

“I’m here about John.” 

“What about him?” 

Mary leaned back in the armchair. “He told me about the trick you pulled on the underground.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Are you here to punish me?”

“Hmm.” Her eyes slid down his body and flicked back to his face. “Tempting, but no. If John decided to forgive you, that’s his choice. No, he told me what he said to you. More or less.”

“That. Ah,” he swallowed. “What about it?” 

“Men,” Mary snorted. “You orchestrated a near death experience to get him to admit he loves you? When anyone could read as much off his face every time he looks at you? Well, every time he doesn’t look like he’s about to kill you.” Sherlock blinked, and Mary shook her head. “You would give anything to be the most important person in his life again.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. That would be a socially unacceptable sentiment to express about my practically married friend. As John would say, bit not good.” 

She ignored that, leaning forward. “I won’t give him up, Sherlock. But I’d be willing to share him.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally. “Explain.” 

To Mary’s total lack of surprise, Sherlock required no coaxing. He listened to her proposition watching her with ferocious attention, sitting perfectly still on the edge of his seat, hands steepled in front of his chin. When she finished there was a long beat of silence and then he said, “I’m sure I can get Mrs. Hudson to dust the room upstairs. You should go look and see if it will be large enough for the two of you. When do you think you’ll be moving in?” 

Mary raised her eyebrows. “Just like that? Shouldn’t you talk to Mrs. Hudson?” 

Sherlock waved a hand. “Mrs. Hudson will be overjoyed. It makes no sense to move someplace larger- there is plenty of space here, and anywhere else is going to be vastly more expensive. Mrs. Hudson gives us a special rate. Now there’s just the matter of convincing John.” He spun around, eyeing her. “You’ve spoken to him? Yes, you have. He wasn’t convinced, but you think my input will sway him. Interesting.” 

“He’s a caretaker. He wants desperately to believe you need him as much as he needs you.” Leaning back in the chair, Mary folded her arms. “But he’s wrong, isn’t he? You need him more.” 

For a long moment, Sherlock stood perfectly still, facing the wall. “It would be impossible to verify that statement since it rests on a subjective and emotional premise.”

“Just because emotions are intangible doesn’t mean they aren’t real.” 

Frowning, Sherlock turned. “Shall I be subjected to both of you lecturing me on the merit of emotion?” 

Mary grinned. “Problem?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's coming to dinner?  
> In which they have The Talk, or at least A Talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some implication of potential sexual attraction here between John and Sherlock. From your comments, it doesn't seem like that will bother most of you, but heads up.

“Run that by me again,” John said, standing over the stove, spatula raised. “Sherlock’s coming over _for dinner_?”

“Yes, he said he’d bring wine.” 

“ _Sherlock’s_ coming over for _dinner_?” 

“That’s what I said.” Plates clattered as Mary set the table. “You’re going to burn the vegetables.” 

John swore and poked at the stir fry. “So, how did you blackmail him into this?” 

“I have no idea what you mean,” Mary said briskly. “Do you think we should have a candle for the table?” 

“A candle?” He turned around. “Mary, are you still on about...?”

The buzzer rang. “That’ll be Sherlock.”

“Mary!” By the time he turned off the burner and taken the pan off the burner, she was already opening the door. As he came out of the kitchen he halted at the sight of his fiancée hugging Sherlock. Over her shoulder, Sherlock’s face was a picture in bemusement, but he raised one hand and patted her gingerly on the shoulder. Mary was dwarfed by Sherlock’s tall frame and John was struck by how Mary would have to go up on her toes to kiss him, how his dark curls would look falling against her blond hair. It hit him low in the gut, distracting him, and he didn’t notice that they had both turned to him. 

“Domesticity looks good on you John.” 

“Wha...?” John blinked and looked down at himself. Mary had given the apron to him at Christmas- it was bright blue and had _What’s cookin’ good lookin’?_ blazoned across the front. He flushed and fumbled with the ties. Sherlock was smirking at him. 

Taking him by the arm, Mary led Sherlock into the kitchen. “Do have a seat Sherlock." To John’s amazement, Sherlock had actually brought a bottle of wine- the expensive kind that John never looked twice at. He spooned the vegetables into a serving dish as Mary got out the corkscrew. When he turned, Sherlock was watching him closely. “You taught yourself to cook while I was gone. Possibly to impress Mary, more likely as a distraction. Mastering new tasks made you feel competent and in control.” 

John shrugged. “It’s nothing special. I didn’t know we were having company.” He looked at Mary pointedly. 

“I could burn water,” Mary said cheerfully, leaning over Sherlock to pour the wine. “I lived on sandwiches and tinned beans for years. When we moved in together we started trying to learn, but John took to it and I didn’t.” 

“I look forward to trying it.” 

John goggled at him. “Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock?” 

Sherlock scowled. “I am attempting to display polite interest in your proletarian hobbies, John.” 

“What did you do to him, Mary?” 

“Play nice, you two.” A match hissed, and Mary lit the candle in the center of the table. “Ready to eat?” 

Sherlock did indeed try a few bites of the meal, declaring that it was, “Satisfactory for a beginning effort, John,” which was almost certainly intended as praise. He only fidgeted a little while Mary asked after John’s day at the clinic, and talked animatedly about the promising but ultimately mediocre case Lestrade had sent him that morning. He was not quite acting like Sherlock playing a role, as he might with a witness or a suspect, but not entirely like himself either. It dawned on John as he was scooping the last bites of sweet potato from his plate that this was Sherlock on his best behavior. 

Sherlock had come over for dinner and brought a bottle of wine, and then sat and talked like a civilized human, granted some of the conversation had been about strangulation. He had made an effort to compliment John, albeit in a very Sherlock way, and had even displayed momentary flashes of manners. There was a candle on the table. 

John set down his fork. “What’s going on here?” 

Sherlock broke off in the middle of his sentence and straightened up. “It’s a seduction. How are we doing?” 

“A-?” John put a hand over his eyes. “Of course it is. I thought I had one mad person in my life, but no, no, I clearly have two.” 

Mary pushed back her chair and picked up their empty plates. “I think you have a type, love.” 

“Wait, sorry, Sherlock, you’re ok with this...” he waved his hands around, “this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? While it is an unconventional arrangement, nothing about our partnership has ever fallen within the arbitrary boundaries of cultural norms. Judging from the cluttered state of this flat, and Mary’s lack of reaction to my ongoing experiments at Baker Street, and taking into account your proven ability to live with either of us, there would not be a problem with cohabitation. We already know that you find my company stimulating, and Mary enjoys your demeanor when you are with me. She apparently finds me tolerable-”

“Entertaining,” Mary injected from the sink. 

“-and is open to alternate lifestyle choices. She values your happiness highly. Also, splitting rent three ways would significantly reduce costs for all of us. You could take fewer hours at the clinic if you wanted.” He hesitated. “And I have been... reflecting on the value of companionship over the last two years.” 

Mary looped her arms around John’s shoulders, pressing her cheek against the top of his head. “He’s missed living with you and wants to be closer to you again.” 

Sherlock’s chair squeaked on the linoleum as he stood abruptly. “More wine, anyone?” He strode to the counter where Mary had left the bottle, pouring himself another glass with his back to them. 

John rose slowly also. “I didn’t think you would be so interested, Sherlock. You’d have to listen to all our dull conversations, and there’d be two of us mucking up your experiments on accident.” 

He snorted. “I would hardly be so careless with my experiments after living with you for eighteen months. And having another person living with us would free me from the necessity of responding to your need for tedious interpersonal interaction.” 

“Thanks,” John scowled. “Very convincing, that.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything Mary plucked the wine bottle from his hand and tugged him toward the sitting room.  
“Let’s have a seat. More wine, John?” 

“Yes please,” he said, trailing after them.

“Here you are.” The bottle glugged as she filled his glass. “If you don’t want this, we won’t do it,” she said softly. “But I think it could be good. For all of us.” Leaning in, she pressed a gentle kiss against his cheek, and then perched on the arm of the couch beside Sherlock. 

John ran a hand through his hair and turned on his heel, pacing, wine sloshing in his glass. “So what is it, actually, that we are specifically discussing? God, I can’t believe I’m considering this. What would this look like?”

“It makes sense for the two of you to move back into Baker Street,” Sherlock said promptly. “Although we could look at alternatives, it is a central location for a very reasonable rate, and landlords who will put up with my... eccentricities are difficult to come by. You would be there when clients called without having to leave your soon-to-be wife. It’s no further to the clinic from Baker Street than it is from here. I know your work gives you pleasure.” He made a face. 

“Yes, but... sleeping and all that.” John said slowly.

“You and Mary could take your old room, or we could negotiate trading so that you could have the extra space in the master bedroom, although there are some experiments in there that I would rather not disturb. I assume the two of you would continue to be sexually intimate. I have little need such things, although my body occasionally craves sexual release. It is simply another part of transport.” 

Drawing a deep breath, John tried not to think about Sherlock giving himself sexual release- in the shower at Baker Street, in bed, on the couch, _god_ \- and told himself that it was the wine making him feel flushed. “Relationships... like that... don’t all three... usually?” He could feel his face flaming. 

“There’s no book of rules, love,” Mary said. “We could continue as we are, with Sherlock as a roommate, and if eventually we wanted to talk about more... well, we’d work that out when we came to it.” 

John tipped his head back, regarding the ceiling. “God, I can’t believe... Are we doing this? We are, aren’t we?” He laughed. “With Sherlock bloody Holmes of all people. I’m as mad as you are.” 

Mary rose from the couch and came to stand beside John. “I think this could be an excellent arrangement for all of us, but I do have one condition for you, Sherlock. I didn’t tell you before because I wanted John to hear. This is non-negotiable.”

He looked up. “What is it?” 

“You don’t get to desert him again.” 

His eyes widened fractionally and his face paled. “The spontaneous and unpredictable nature of the world is such that-”

She held up a hand firmly. “No one can promise to live forever. Unforeseen things happen. But we make vows anyway. That’s what marriage means- we are prepared to do our utmost to stay together, no matter what happens. If you want to be part of that, you have to do better than you did last time.” Against her shoulder, she could feel John shaking, but she didn’t take her eyes off Sherlock. He was watching John and there was naked, painful longing on his face. John didn’t look up from his white knuckles around the wineglass. 

Sherlock swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I want to promise you.” 

“How much do you want it?” Mary asked fiercely. “If you to do this with us, if you want John, I have to believe you will fight to keep him, to stay with him. That’s how this works. Nobody can promise forever, but you can promise to try your bloody hardest. Do you want this? All of it?”

He closed his eyes briefly. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for your feedback and encouragement. It means an incredible amount to know that people are as touched by this trio as I am, and that you all like the way I write them. This is as much as I've had planned (... and I think it sort of stands on its own here?) but I would love to write more. I'm watching SoT tonight, so we'll see if that inspires me, but if there's something you want to see, please tell me! Hearing from you all is super motivating.  
> ETA: JUST WATCHED SIGN OF THREE AHHH YOU GUYS. Ok ok, that was basically perfectly in line with this fic, I WAS NOT expecting that. Ok. Deep breaths. (SPOILERS AHEAD) This fic is going to continue to be set before the wedding, but the wedding does fit into this story, further along the line of their relationship. I have at least two more scenes in mind (including an exploration of their sexual dynamic) both before the wedding. (Spring wedding, ep 1 was November- this makes sense, ok?)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving day.

“Are you sure this is what you want, dear?” John heard Mrs. Hudson ask anxiously. Mary was down in the hall with her while he thumped upstairs with the last of the bags. Sherlock, predictably, had carried up two boxes, and thrown himself dramatically on the couch. “Sherlock can be a bit difficult...” 

“I’ll say,” John muttered to himself, shouldering open the door of the flat. “Sherlock! A hand with the rest of these?” 

“Your life’s possessions fit easily into two boxes, one of which I helped you carry, a natural tendency for frugality which was solidified during your stint with the army. For fairness sake, I also lugged up one of Mary’s. It’s not my concern that she has acquired more dross in her life.” 

John let the box in his arms thud to the floor. “It’s not all her stuff, Sherlock. Some of it is things we both use. Dishes, pans, linens. Books, CDs. You know, things that a household accumulates.” 

Sherlock frowned. “Those things are still here from when you lived here before.” 

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point? The things we accumulated here are perfectly sufficient.” 

“But I have other things from my life with Mary! They’re important.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock sneered. “Sentiment. I see.” He flopped over, putting his face to the back of the couch. “Don’t let me interfere with your hauling sentimental trash up two flights of stairs.” 

John gritted his teeth. “Fine.” 

“Fine!” 

He stomped back down the stairs. Mary raised her eyebrows when she saw his face. “Everything alright?” 

“Just Sherlock being a git. Refusing to be helpful, like always.”

“Mmmm. We’re almost done carrying things up, aren’t we?”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Just another couple of boxes.” 

She pecked his cheek. “I’ll get them. You go talk to Mrs. Hudson, she was asking after you.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yep. Go on.”

She watched him clump off in the direction of the kitchen, and then pushed her hair out of her eyes and heaved the last two boxes off the floor. Edging sideways up the stairs so she could see around them, she maneuvered into the flat and deposited the boxes on the floor. Sherlock was lying on the couch with his back to the door. He didn’t stir as she approached, but startled when she gave in to temptation and ran her fingers through his unkempt curls. 

Flipping over onto his back, he blinked at her. When she had first met Sherlock, Mary hadn’t noticed his eyes particularly. They weren’t the most obvious feature of the man’s overwhelming presence. But his eyes were a startling, clear shade of blue or green, something pale marine. 

“I don’t know why you’re so tired,” she goaded gently. “You didn’t do hardly any of the work.” 

His forehead wrinkled. “I’m not tired.” 

“No? Glad to hear it.” She gave his head another affectionate pat. “I should start unpacking.” He grunted, closing his eyes in dismissal. “There’s not really that much, it won’t take long. I’ll just move things around to make space, shall I? Don’t worry, I’ll be careful not to disturb anything.” Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “John’s told me all about your experiments. Don’t get up. I’m sure I can figure out what’s important.”

Swinging his legs off the couch, Sherlock sat up abruptly, slender frame unfolding like a lawn chair. 

“Just let me clear some space in here,” she continued from the kitchen, voice echoing slightly, “and I can start putting the plates away.” 

“Don’t open the cupboard!” Sherlock yelped. 

“Which one?” Mary called. 

“The one by the sink! It’s a very light-sensitive fungi that…not that one either!” he added, as she reached for the next cupboard. “That’s poisons.” He pointed a slender finger at the living room. “You go and sit. John will put things away.” 

“He’s my fiancé, not my servant. Besides, it has been two years since he lived here. Sometimes he can’t remember what he was going to make for dinner. It’d be a shame if he mucked up one of your projects by accident.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  
~

Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, cracking eggs into a mixing bowl. “Oh, John dear. Was there something you needed?”

“No, uh, Mary thought you wanted to talk to me.” 

Dropping the eggshells into the bin, she turned. “No, I was just telling her that I’m glad you and Sherlock have sorted yourselves out, but I’m a bit worried about you and Mary.” 

“How d'you mean?” 

“Well it isn’t easy being newly wed, is it?” She wiped her hands on her apron and picked up a wooden spoon. “Won’t it be difficult for the two of you to build a life together living with...” 

“Sherlock?” John said sharply. 

She eyed him sternly. “There’s no call to take that tone with me. I was going to say, with someone you used to be...close to.” 

John drew a deep breath. “Sherlock and I were never together.” 

“Yes, dear, you’ve said.” The spoon scraped the sides of the bowl as she stirred. “Doesn’t mean you haven’t got a history with him. That’s got to complicate things. And it must be hard on poor Mary, to come into the middle of that. Bad enough him returning out of the blue, no warning like that, he’s lucky I’ve got a strong heart! But for you and Mary, when Sherlock was so important to you...” She shook her head. “It’s none of my business. All I’m saying is you look after her.” 

“I know.” He swallowed. “Mary’s... amazing.” 

Mrs. Hudson pointed the doughy spoon at him. “And don’t let her walk all over Sherlock. He’s not used to women.” 

John choked on a startled chuckle. “I...I’ll do my best.” 

As he took the stairs two at a time, there was a racket of clattering and banging from the flat. He burst into the sitting room, glancing around. “What’s going on?” 

Mary had her feet up on the coffee table, relaxing in his armchair with a satisfied grin on her face. She nodded toward to kitchen. 

Sherlock had two of their moving boxes open on the floor and was jamming plates, cups, pans, and ladles haphazardly into the cupboards, wearing a ferocious scowl and making as much unholy noise as possible. 

John groaned. “I’m never going to find anything. Sherlock, let me-”

“Don’t touch anything, John! I have been informed that it is my responsibility to look after things which are important to me, which apparently includes doing menial labor to prevent you or your clumsy fiancee from inadvertently disrupting a delicate experiment.” His face was thunderous. “Clearly it is up to me to see some semblance of order is maintained…”

“Order? You call this order?” John waved his arms. “How am I suppose to bloody find things when you’re stashing the bread pan in with the soup bowls?” 

“Just because your limited intellect cannot immediately comprehend a pattern of organization doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist,” Sherlock spat. “Your precious cooking implements are in fact arranged by volume from the largest bowls near the refrigerator to shallow plates and spatulas near the door, expecting the cupboard by the sink which is not to be opened, and the poisons which are by the tea where they always were.” He folded his arms. “If spacial dimensions are not an acceptable sorting method you should have returned sooner to express your desire for illogical culinary organization. Mrs. Hudson’s predictable consternation over our arrangement was hardly worth your time.”

John rubbed his palms against his trousers. “I didn’t realize you had a system. I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that. Thank you for helping put this stuff away.” 

Frowning, Sherlock said, “It was a self-centered consideration intended to protect my ongoing experiments from…” He broke off as Mary slipped her arms around his waist from behind. 

She beamed up at him as he twisted to look down at her. “It was being part of the team.” 

Sherlock blinked. “Team?” 

“Yeah. We’re a team, the three of us. We work together and take care of each other. That’s how a partnership goes.” Stretching up on her toes, she kissed him on the chin, near the corner of his mouth. “You’re part of that now. Welcome to the team.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm not a huge fan of this chapter, and it's short, but I wanted to get it posted today because I have friends visiting this weekend and I won't have much time to work on it after this. I think this is the last thing I will be able to write and post before Last Vow and I'm SCARED guys. I don't know how my energy/motivation/emotions will be after watching that, but there will be more of this because I have more of this written but there is at least one scene between here and there. At this point, don't expect more until this time next week, at which time we will all be wandering in the empty wasteland of Sherlocklessness.


	4. Chapter 4

Mary was a tactile person. It was one of the things that melted John a little more every time he noticed. She kissed him hello and goodbye, nestled against him in bed, leaned into his side if they were standing together, hugged him unexpectedly, touched his hip or his arm when they passed each other. Sometimes John noticed Sherlock watching them intently in those small moments of touch, a faint frown creasing his forehead. 

From the beginning, Mary touched Sherlock easily too, squeezing his arm, a brief hug, a kiss on the cheek. Sherlock’s consternation upon each occasion would have been funny if it hadn’t made John’s ribs ache like an old wound. 

One morning, as John shuffled down the stairs in his dressing gown, he heard the low murmur of Sherlock’s voice, and smiled to himself as he made out the words. “No, look at the other slide again. It lacks the distinct traces of _treponema pallidum_. Unlikely to be from our victim. Next.”

Grinning, John shambled into the kitchen, only to halt in the doorway. Sherlock was at his microscope, exactly where they had left him last night, but Mary was leaning over his chair from behind, arms looped around his shoulders and head nestled against his as he peered intently into the lens. Odd enough that Sherlock was allowing such sustained contact, he proceeded to shock John entirely by shifting to one side so that Mary could lean forward and look into the microscope. “Well?” said impatiently. 

Mary hummed under her breath, the way she did when she was concentrating. “It’s not got the little flaky bits. What did you say they were?”

“Clay particles. An observation Lestrade’s team completely failed to make. Next slide.” He plucked the slide out. Mary leaned over to pick up another from the table and slotted it into the microscope. John blinked. Sherlock never let anyone touch his equipment. Mary was petting his hair as he examined the new slide, and John wondered if he was having a strange, domestic dream. 

He cleared his throat. “Good morning?” 

“Good morning dear.” Mary wandered over and kissed his cheek. John’s hand dropped to her waist, bare skin hot beneath his fingers between her camisole and flannel pyjama bottoms. “Sleep well?” 

“Yes. Uh. What were you doing?” 

“Sherlock was showing me the samples he’s looking at for the case with the retired prostitute. Just putting up with me, really.” She smiled. 

“Right. Tea?” 

“That’d be lovely. I would have put some on, but Sherlock distracted me.”

“Tea is unnecessary,” Sherlock muttered. 

“I’ll make enough for all of us.” Crossing the kitchen, John dropped his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed. It felt natural, no more intimate than he might exchange with Greg or Molly, or anyone who welcomed normal human contact. Sherlock, however, froze, and looked at him wide-eyed, microscope slide forgotten between his fingers. John blinked at him, picking up the kettle. 

When they had lived together before Sherlock’s disappearance, the two of them had rarely touched. But living with Mary, John had gotten used to the comfortable intimacy of having another person in his physical space. 

“Uh. Was that…? Was that not…?” John began.

“No, it was-”

“If you don’t want-”

“No, it’s fine.” 

“Fine?” 

“Just… fine.” Sherlock frowned. “I’m busy.” 

“Right.” John glanced helplessly at Mary, who was leaning against the counter, eyes crinkled in amusement. “I’ll just. Tea.”

Despite the awkwardness of that exchange, John found himself touching Sherlock more; bumping shoulders with him in the morning as greeting, reaching out to brush their fingers together if they passed in the hall, ruffling his hair if John walked past the couch while Sherlock was sprawled on it, the way he would with Mary. It always seemed to startle Sherlock, in a way Mary’s easy affection had ceased to. Sometimes Sherlock would even initiate contact with her, taking her arm, or kissing her cheek. John had seen him do the same to Mrs. Hudson and even Molly, but contact between the two of them remained uneasy.

John wasn’t sure why it bothered him. It never had before.  
~

After one particularly interesting night which ended with them chasing a man in a clown costume from Bethnal Green to Westminster, John and Sherlock returned to the flat in the small hours of the morning. They were laughing as they stumbled up the stairs, shushing each other and laughing harder, giddy with success. In the flat, Sherlock stripped off his coat and sprawled on the couch. “I think Lestrade didn’t appreciate the humor,” he chuckled. “Did you see his face?” 

“Budge up.” Nudging at Sherlock’s knees, John collapsed beside him. 

“What’s wrong with your chair?” 

“You left your fingernail collection on it.” 

“Ah. I meant to move that after I completed my inventory.”

“Not so loud. You’ll wake Mary.” 

The stairs creaked. “You two could wake a sixth former on a Saturday.” Mary had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and her feet were bare, toes curling on the cold steps. “Good case?” 

“Unusual, certainly. It’ll be a good one for the blog.” John leaned forward and pushed himself to his feet. “I’m knackered.” 

“You’ll certainly call it something ridiculous.” Sherlock’s head was tipped back, smiling faintly. It was so late that the sun was coming up, John was still foggy and impulsive with adrenaline and lack of sleep, and before he could think too hard about it he leant down and pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. His curls were soft and smelled of soap. Immediately, still breathing in the scent of Sherlock’s hair, John felt a wave of apprehension clench in his gut. He drew back slowly, not wanting to see Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock was was staring at him, startled and appraising, very still. John cleared his throat. “I. Uh. Bed. Sleep. Night. Or, something. Morning, really.”

“Why do you place such value on the arbitrary intimacy of physical interaction?” Sherlock asked suddenly. 

John blinked. “What do you mean?” 

“An important part of the way you express affection with Mary is through nonverbal cues in the form of touch. It strikes me as subjective in the extreme and an unreliable way of communicating given the variance in individual comfort with such expressions and the arbitrary boundaries between sexual and nonsexual touch.” 

Glancing at Mary, John shrugged. “It’s not about communication. Well, it is, I suppose. But not in complicated ways. Just. I’m here. I see you. I’m glad you’re here too. It’s… comforting.” 

“Comforting,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Does it bother you?” Mary spoke up. “When we touch you?” 

Sherlock frowned. “It’s…distracting.” 

“Do you want us to stop?” Mary asked. 

Down in the street, daytime city noises were beginning. They filtered through the walls in the silence, as if the world didn’t have the decency to hold it’s breath. “No,” Sherlock muttered. 

John exhaled. “Right. Well.” 

Quick as a cat, Sherlock reached out and seized John’s hand, drawing it to him and pressing a dry, swift kiss to his knuckles, over almost before he had realized what was happening. “Go to bed, John,” he said roughly. 

Mary curled her hands around his arm as John blinked at her. There was a quivering warmth in the pit of his stomach. Her smile was soft, face luminous in the grey light of dawn. “Sleep, love. We’ll stil be here when you wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, I didn't think I was going to write more, but I really want to get this posted before ep3, in case something happens to destroy our cuddly OT3 world, god forbid.   
> The next chapter is sexy, i have it mostly written, so it will get posted no matter what happens tomorrow, and I have ideas for at least 3 more chapters that would take this fic all the way through the wedding, but depending on what Last Vow does to canon they may or may not get written.   
> Also, you may have noticed none of this is beta'd or Brit-picked, but this chapter was written and posted particularly late at night. Sorry for typos!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mind the rating change!   
> In which John and Mary have sex, but don't let that put you off.

John shook the newspaper closed and looked at Mary. “Long day.” 

She dogeared the corner of her novel and set it aside on a stack of medical journals. “Ready for bed?” 

“I think so, yeah.” 

Pushing aside the blanket over her legs, Mary got up and leaned over to kiss John. “I’ll meet you upstairs.” 

“Right. Mary and I are going to turn in,” John called to Sherlock, who was bent over an experiment at the kitchen table. “To rest. Very restfully. Without interruptions.” 

“He means we’re going to have sex, and he doesn’t want you barging in like yesterday!” Mary called from the stairs. 

John grimaced. “Yes. That.” 

Sherlock didn’t look up from his petri dishes. “Don’t worry John. The likelihood of a second attempted bombing in two days is vanishingly small. Now that I’m aware of your strong feelings on the topic I will refrain for interrupting you for non-essential cases.” 

Mary was waiting for him in their room, sprawled on the bed. Her clothes were in a heap on the floor, and she lounged in her camisole and lace panties. “What did he say?” 

It took John a moment to process her question. The room was cool and her nipples were showing through the thin cotton of her top. “Said he would only barge in if it was essential.” John grimaced. “No knowing what that means.” 

“I’m sure we’ll find out someday.” She held out a hand, and he knelt on the bed, making the mattress dip. “That’s part of the adventure of being with him.” 

“Are we going to talk about Sherlock, or are we going to shag?” He leaned in to kiss her. Mary hummed against his mouth as he slid his fingers under the hem of her camisole. “Pick up where we... were so rudely... interrupted,” he continued, punctuating with kisses across her throat. He nuzzled at one of her breasts, cupping the other reverently and toying with her nipple between two fingers. 

“Does it- mmhm- bother you?” she asked, slightly breathless. 

“Does what?” he mumbled into the curve of her ribs. 

“Me telling Sherlock... when we’re shagging.” 

John lifted his head. “Wha-? No, I don’t care. Sod Sherlock.”

“Don’t stop.” She threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling him back down to her breast. He flicked his tongue over her nipple, and then bit her, lightly, in retribution. “Mhmm! I mean,” she gasped. “He knows anyway. When we do this. Big brain of his. Bet he could tell us how many times you got me off, and in what position.” 

John’s head jerked up again. “Are we really going to talk about Sherlock while we fuck?” 

Mary grinned. The evil twist to her smile sent a spike of heat straight to his balls. “Don’t you wonder if he ever thinks about it? He as good as told us he gets himself off sometimes. What does he think, lying down there on the couch, knowing we’re up here getting it on? I bet you can hear the bedsprings creaking, in an old building like this. Do you think he’s ever tempted to touch himself?” 

“God, Mary,” John breathed, pressing his face against her stomach. She ran her nails lightly across his scalp, and he shivered. 

“Think he gets himself off, listening to us? Imagining, maybe?” 

“Fuck.” Heaving himself up, John fumbled with his belt and zipper. His erection was straining against the front of his jeans. “I’ve got to-”

“Yes. Yes.” She stretched to snatch a condom from the nightstand. “Here-” 

Their hands tangled on his prick trying to roll it on. “Let me- 

“Yes, just- There.” Mary locked her legs around his hips and rolled onto her back with John on top of her. “Like this. Ah! Ah. John,” she sighed as he slid into her, slick and easy, and _god_ , she was dripping wet, thighs sticky with it where the teeth of his zipper rasped against her skin.

“Mary,” he grunted. 

“Do you want more? About him?” She clutched at his shoulders as he thrust into hard. He was still wearing his buttoned shirt, fabric scrunching under his fingers. “Tell me.” 

His head was ducked against her shoulder so she couldn’t see his face, but his fingers were white where he was clutching the pillow, and his hips were jerking shallowly. Mary wasn’t sure she had ever seen John so turned on so quickly. 

“You have to tell me, if you want it. Do you want to hear more about Sherlock?”

“Yes,” John gasped, and his voice was hoarse as if he’d been screaming, and Mary was going to come as soon as she got a hand between them. She had to draw two shaky breaths before she could continue. 

“Imagine him taking off that robe of his and lying on his bed. He’s right below us, he’d be able to hear everything.” John whimpered, eyes tightly shut. “Ever seen him naked? God, I bet he’s gorgeous. Tall and lean, the fit bastard. Never eats anything, you could count his ribs. Feel ‘em under your fingers when you touched him.

“When he walked in on us… what do you think he though? Think he’d imagined it before? You lying naked while I went down on you? The sounds you made?” She rucked his shirt up around his shoulders so their bare bellies slid together and she could run her nails down the long expanse of his back. “Think he’s heard us before? You know how much noise we make sometimes. What if he hadn’t been ready to run off on a case? What if he’d stayed to watch?” John’s breath hitched and his rhythm stuttered. “Watch me suck you off and finger myself, listening to you moaning. Standing by the door, watching us, getting hard in those pressed trousers of his.” 

John groaned and buried his face in her neck. 

“He’d be so hard, seeing us together, it’d hurt and he’d want to touch himself but he wouldn’t because he’d want to observe more. Everything about you fascinates him. It would drive him crazy that this is a part of you he’s never explored. Imagine him leaning over you while I sucked you, observing your pupil dilation and heart rate. You’d be flushed down your chest and your nipples would be stiff, and he’d be breathing hard, trying to pretend he was all aloof, but his cock’d be aching, pressing against the front of his trousers. Bet it’s a long one, leaks when he gets hot, just like you. God, I love that. I want to suck you off together, press your pricks together and lick you both. Can you imagine what he’d sound like? He’d clutch at your arms and call your name as he came...”

John’s hips jerked once, twice, three times, and he went still, pressed deep, grunting something strangled and unintelligible. It had too many syllables to be “Mary.” Slipping her hand between them, she pressed two fingers to her clit and came as well, biting down on his good shoulder to muffle her wail. 

John let himself collapse slowly beside her, barely managing the coordination to hold the condom as his prick slipped out of her, twitching with aftershocks. His face was buried in the damp pillow. Mary was watching him, threading her fingers through his hair, but he didn't look up, even as sweat and semen began to turn chill and itchy on his skin. In the silence of their heavy breathing, the radiator clicked and hummed, and traffic rumbled by down Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I saw Last Vow and WOW, um, lots to say about that but not here. Long story short, I don't think it invalidates this story, if anything it adds a lot of dimension.   
> I am thinking about writing this so it follows canon all the way through the third episode. Do you guys think that would be trying to extend this past its natural limit? 
> 
> I see all your lovely comments and they mean THE WORLD to me, I will get around to answering them all. I love you all, hearing from you with your enthusiasm and your ideas is what keeps me writing this.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock hash out some issues. Get your Johnlock goggles on.

John rolled over into the warm dent Mary had left in the pillows and groaned at the morning sun shining through the curtains. He cracked his eyes open. Was it possible to feel hungover from orgasms? They’d had sex twice more after Mary’s little game had gotten them both off in fifteen minutes. He’d not come three times in a night since he was thirty. 

He flinched a little, and buried his face in the pillows, remembering some of the things they’d whispered to each other. That hadn’t been a dream. Not that he ever had dreams like that. Ever. Really. 

Downstairs, the pipes wheezed and honked as the shower was turned on. Sitting up, John stretched and groaned, rubbing his eyes. The movement reminded him in unexpected places of his exertion the previous night and he grimaced. 

Lurching up out of bed, he dragged on himself to the closet and pulled the first clothes that came to hand. He had a full two days off work, and he was going to wear his most ragged sweater and watch bad telly, and hopefully have more excellent sex. 

The thought sent a pleasant shiver through him, tinged with the creeping warmth of shame. It felt a bit wrong to get off talking about a friend like that, without his knowing, never mind the embarrassment of it being Sherlock. How many times had he protested that it wasn’t like that? Mary wouldn’t tell anyone, but she would never let him forget that it was at least a little bit like that. He wasn’t sure if the uncomfortable squirming in his stomach at that thought as excitement or trepidation. 

When John entered the living room, Sherlock was hunched over his laptop, wearing the same shirt he’d been in yesterday, and didn’t glance up as he passed on the way to the kitchen. The shower shut off with a clunk and the bathroom door opened as John shuffled to the sink to fill the kettle. Mary, damp and pink, wrapped in a towel, whisked in, dropped a kiss on his cheek, and bustled past, up the stairs. 

Turning the stove on, John leaned against the counter watching the element glow under the kettle, thinking idly about Mary in the shower. About stepping into the shower with her, running his hands over her hips, kissing her in the warm steam, licking clean water from her lips and her small breasts. The water making their skin stick between them, leaning back against a broad, bare chest, a strong arm coming to hold him around the waist, slender musician’s fingers cupping Mary’s cheek as John kissed her. 

The kettle was whistling. Taking it off the heat, he reached for cupboard with the tea. 

“John!”

John jerked in surprise and splashed scalding water all over the counter. “Bloody-! Sherlock!”

“Three restaurant break-ins in the last two weeks, John! Nothing stolen except some inferior wine and inexplicably a bronze statue of a pissing cupid. I think it may be connected to the poisoner from last month.” He grinned, clapping his hands. “Get your coat, we’re headed to Fleet Street.” 

This was Sherlock in his element, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, hair in disarray. There was a sudden, visceral lurch in John’s stomach. Already warm, he felt himself flush deeply. That look, on Sherlock’s face, did things to him, in a way it never had before. 

“Not today, Sherlock,” he said gruffly, reaching for a dish cloth to wipe up the spilled water. 

“What do you mean, not today?” Sherlock’s expression of affront would have made John laugh, except his heart was still pounding and the collar of his shirt felt tight around his neck.

John gritted his teeth, face hot. “I have some journal articles I need to catch up on. I’ve put it off to long already.” 

“Boring!” Sherlock exclaimed. “You don’t need to bother yourself with dull theses that any fool could deduce.” He had bounded across the kitchen and into John’s space, crowding him against the counter. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, showing the elegant dip of his clavicle at eye-level. 

John ducked under his arm and hurried to put an arm’s length of distance between them. “It’s my job to be informed about current medical discourse.” John said sharply. 

“Given the institutional pressure to publish frequently, content of peer reviewed journals is largely repetitive and obtuse. No need to miss a promising case.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and John felt his gaze raising gooseflesh on his skin. “You wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to forgo your work for mine. Something has happened. Judging by your body language, you are uncomfortable with the suggestion.” John realized his shoulders were slightly hunched and he straightened self-consciously. “Was it the feet in the freezer? They’ll be gone by tomorrow.” 

“No, I-” John stopped and put a hand over his eyes. “There are feet in the freezer? Course there are. You realize that counts as keeping body parts with food.” 

“There should be no danger of cross contamination as long as the specimens remain frozen. I assumed it wouldn’t bother you.” Sherlock paused and twitched his fingers. “Possibly, I miscalculated.”

John took a deep breath, flexing his fists, not looking at Sherlock. “No. You knew it would bother me. You assumed I would forgive you.”   
“A fairly sound assumption, given past-”

“Shut up!” John barked, spinning around. All thoughts of sex had flown from his mind, leaving the raw hollow of grief and rage at Sherlock’s death that his return had not erased, which revealed itself unexpectedly and never failed to shock John at the force of his emotions. “Just shut your mouth and hear me out for once in your life! You’re always pushing and pushing, trying my patience, testing the limits. You’re a bloody child sometimes, Sherlock! Would it kill you to respect my limits for once? When I say I don’t want corpses in the fridge, I mean it, and when I say I want to take a day off and stay home, I bloody mean it!”

“John,” Sherlock began, low and urgent. “You’re upset-“

“No.” John held up a hand. “You think you can walk all over me. Well maybe you can, god knows you always have. But remember this. Just because I keep coming back doesn’t mean that those things make me like you. It doesn’t make me happy to be your friend.” 

Sherlock made a soft noise in his throat, and John turned his back. Careful not to look at Sherlock’s face, John stomped out of the kitchen and up the stairs.   
He thumped open the bedroom door and froze. Mary had a suitcase open on the bed and was throwing socks into it. His stomach lurched, sick and slow. “Mary?” 

“Fight with Sherlock?” She didn’t look around, pulling a sweater out of the closet. 

“What are you…” 

She turned and saw his face. “Oh John. Don’t you remember? Cornwall with Janine? Girl’s holiday?” 

Air rushed back to his lungs. “You’re going away this weekend?” 

Mary sighed. “John, I told you a month ago when I made these plans.” 

“Right,” John mumbled. “Right. Sure.” 

Zipping the suitcase, Mary straightened and hauled it off the bed, kissing John as she edged around him through the door. “I’ve got to go, love. I’m meeting Janine at the station.” 

John followed her down to the living room. Pulling on her coat, she leaned over the couch to kiss Sherlock. “Bye, love. Take care of John.” 

“You’re leaving?” he muttered, eyes flicking over her and the suitcase by the door. “Short journey, taking the train, not staying long, a weekend jaunt.” He frowned. “Not a business trip. What?”

Mary rolled her eyes. “The two of you, I swear. I’ll be back Sunday. Don’t burn down the flat while I’m gone.” 

“Where are you going? John, where is she going?” Sherlock sat up as picked up her case and stepped out onto the landing.

Her footsteps thudded on the stairs, and then Mrs Hudson’s voice in the hallway. “I hope you have a nice time dear. But are you sure about leaving the boys for the weekend? I heard them having a bit of a a domestic this morning.” 

John shut the door, hard, before he could hear her response, and strode over to his chair, not looking at Sherlock. Throwing himself down, he shook the newspaper open with a snap, and stared resolutely at a headline, without really reading it. His traitorous ears strained to pick up the sounds of Sherlock’s movements. A rustle of fabric as Sherlock lay back again on the couch, a sigh of breath, almost at the limit of his hearing. An unexpected shiver passed over John’s skin, and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the newsprint. He was a grown man, goddammit, he would not jump at every movement like a schoolboy with a crush. It was just the two of them, at home in Baker Street, just like it always had been. Nothing strange about it. 

John couldn’t stop picturing Sherlock alternately naked, or falling from St. Bart’s. Neither was comforting. 

He shut the newspaper abruptly. “Didn’t you have a case?” 

Sherlock hummed absently, in agreement or dismissal, and John wondered if that was one of the noises he would make in bed, distracted. 

“Well?” 

“You didn’t want to take it. Do keep up, John.” 

“When has what I wanted ever been a factor?” 

“Don’t make me express sentiment, John.” 

“No, that would be too bloody much to ask, wouldn’t it?” John snapped. 

His sharp tone made Sherlock turn his head, crack an eye open to look at him. “Sentimental displays are invariably redundant and…” 

“Shut up, no, you wouldn’t understand.” John tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Everybody thinks you don’t have emotions, god knows I’ve wondered myself, but they’re wrong. You do have them. The thing is, you don’t think they are important.” 

“Aren’t they?” 

“You honestly mean that.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Of course. Emotions in others are tedious at worse, leverage points at best. Emotions in myself are… difficult.” 

“Leverage points.” John sucked in a breath, nostrils flaring. His knuckles were white on the fabric of the arm chair, his voice soft. “Is that what we are to you, Mary and I? Is that what this is?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“What is it then?” John exploded, pushing himself out of his chair. “What was it to you when we were together before? Were we business partners? Flatmates? I thought we were friends, Sherlock, but friends don’t do what you did to me. When you left, when you died, I lost my best friend. And you don’t understand why that matters.” 

Sherlock’s chest rose and fell as he breathed deeply. “You’re trying to pick a fight. Not responding is the most likely route to the optimum outcome.” 

“Well maybe I bloody well want you to fight with me!” John shouted. 

A ringing silence descended, Sherlock frozen on the couch, John standing, shoulders tense in front of the mantle. In the kitchen, the refrigerator clicked on with a hum. John realized that he was waiting for Mary’s voice to interrupt, to say something distracting, redirect their attention. He let out a breath. “Look. I’m still royally pissed off with you.” He barked an unhappy laugh. “Maybe you noticed. What you did was awful, but the reason I’m here is that I want to… fix it. If we can. But the thing is, if this is going to work, then it has to work between the two of us, not just when Mary’s around.” 

Sherlock eyed him warily. “Work?” 

“Yes.” He flexed his fingers restlessly at his side. “I know how to be with Mary, and I thought I knew how to be with you, but too much has changed.” 

“Is this... do you not want this anymore? Living together?” Sherlock’s voice was tight.

“No. I mean I do. Still want it, that is. I…” John swallow. “It’s been good. Mostly.” 

Sherlock exhaled, and John didn’t miss the way his shoulders relaxed into the couch cushions. “Yes. It- I agree.” 

Breathing deeply, John rubbed his temple. “How did this start, anyway?” 

“I merely decided to put off going on a case since you had expressed a desire to stay in.”

“Right.” John frowned. “That’s not odd at all. Why were you being so… so… thoughtful?”

Sherlock’s knuckles were white where his hands were clasped under his chin, but his voice was level. “I was under the impression it was a quality to aspire to.”

“Yes, but,” John waved a hand vaguely. “It’s not… you!”

“No, it’s not,” Sherlock agreed. “I thought that was part of the appeal.” 

“Well it’s a bit worrying to be frank.” John frowned, thinking again about what had just been said. “Part of the appeal is… it not being like you?” he said slowly. 

Sherlock nodded stiffly. “An ongoing theme of interactions with me has been displeasure with my conduct. Rudeness, selfishness, obliviousness. I am aware of your continuing anger over my actions over the last two years and despite the tediousness of emotion, I found during that time that your absence from my life had a significant negative impact on my energy and focus. Your anger with me is…troubling.” 

“So you’re saying,” John said slowly, “that being gone made you realize that being around me makes you… happy? And you are… unhappy when I’m mad at you.” 

He wrinkled his nose. “Not the word I would have chosen, but broadly speaking, I suppose. I am also aware of the unconventional nature of our current situation, and the potential precariousness of it, due to both your lingering anger with me and societal pressures on you and Mary to lead a conventional lifestyle. I deduced that attempting to conform to societal norms would increase the likelihood of sustaining this arrangement over the long term.” He frowned. “Apparently I was wrong.” 

John looked at the carpet, translating. “You’re trying to be less…you, because you like living with us, and you’re worried that… this isn’t going to work?” 

“You said so yourself, didn’t you?” Sherlock was looking resolutely at the ceiling. “The external feedback since you and Mary moved in has been nothing but negative. Mrs. Hudson is worried that I will disrupt your relationship with her and be an impediment to your happiness together. I doesn’t take a genius to notice her constant hovering. Lestrade has tried to probe the issue, in his usual inept way. Even my brother asked if I was sure it was wise.” 

“Mrs. Hudson is a dear, lovely woman,” John said evenly, “And Greg is a good friend, and god help me, but I think Mycroft tries to be a good brother. But none of them is a part of this. What they think doesn’t count.”

“But you said it wasn’t working.” 

“No, I said we have to make it work.” 

“Ergo, it is not working as-is.” 

“Alright, yes, this morning has been more difficult than usual,” John admitted, “but that wasn’t entirely something you did. At least, not something you did today.” 

“You still haven’t forgiven me.” It wasn’t a question, but there was an uncertain lilt to the tail of it.

“No. Yes, I don’t know.” John rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure I even know what forgiveness means anymore. That’s not the point. The point is, I want this to work.” 

Sherlock pushed himself up off the couch in one smooth movement, and paced to the window. “So you say, yet by your behavior this morning my very company makes you uncomfortable and irrational.” 

“That was…” John shook his head. “You caught me at a bad time. That doesn’t change things. What I’m trying to say-” 

“And you’ve not wanted to go on cases recently,” Sherlock continued over him. 

“Two cases. Two! One because it was my date night with Mary, and one because you walked in on us shagging. I shouldn’t have to stop spending time with my wife to reassure you that I'm still your friend, you great daft git!” 

Sherlock blinked rapidly. “Right. Ah. Right.” 

“Yes. Anyway.” John flexed his fingers. “What I’m trying to say is… this is good. I like this. Living here. With you. And Mary. It’s just… an adjustment. I am still angry as hell, and I’m trying to figure out how to live with that. You have to earn my trust back, and I’m not sure what that will take. But I’m not about to leave you.” He looked at Sherlock pointedly. “As long as you don’t leave us.” 

Morning light made Sherlock’s pale face luminous as he gazed out the window. “I did promise Mary I would do my best to stay with you. I cannot control the future, John-”

“I know. But I am trusting you to try. To try again.” 

Sherlock’s eyes dipped closed, lashes casting sooty, jagged shadows on his cheeks. “Yes.” 

“Right.” They eyed each other, and then John rolled his eyes and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. “Come here,” he muttered.

“I am, indisputably, already ‘here’ as you put it,” Sherlock mumbled into his hair. 

“Shut up.” John’s nose was pressed against his collarbone, and every breath filled his lungs with the soap-and-skin smell of Sherlock, always touched with a faint acridness of formaldehyde or antiseptic. His skin was warmth through the cotton of his wrinkled shirt, his hand coming to rest tentatively on John’s shoulder felt hot even through his jumper. John’s body was humming, like walking down a dark alley, alert and tingling but without the edge of fear, just the clean, warm flush of adrenaline shivering through him. Breathing deeply, he tried to ignore his sudden awareness of his dick, traitorously interested. 

When he pulled away slightly, leaning back to look at Sherlock, he was almost dizzied by the difference in their height. He would have to stretch up on his tiptoes to kiss him, maybe twine his fingers in Sherlock’s soft curls to pull him down. Sherlock would be startled, would make a soft noise against his lips… 

John stepped away, flexing his hands. “Right.” 

“Yes.” 

They looked at each other. 

“Tea,” John said firmly. 

“You haven’t finished yours from earlier.” 

“It’s gone cold.” Picking up his cup, he turned toward the kitchen. 

“What about this morning?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“What about it?” 

“You didn't want to go on a case this morning either. It would be an ideal time, with Mary gone there can be no demand on time spent with her.”

“That.” John grimaced. He put the cup down with a clink on the counter and reached for the kettle. “Ah. That’s a bit… ah.” 

“Avoiding eye-contact, occupying yourself with meaningless tasks.” Sherlock followed him into the kitchen. “You don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Sherlock,” John sighed, and turned to face him. “Fine, tell me. Deduce me.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered over him. “This is something to do with your inexplicable discomfort with me this morning. Given your sentiments just expressed, it is not a general aversion to my presence in your life or my demands no your time. It is a new factor since the last time we were in proximity. What happened last night?” He frowned. “Nothing out of the ordinary happened, except that you retired early, explainable by your intercourse with Mary.” 

John coughed, looking away. “About that. Do you, uh. Does it bother you, when we, uh…”

“When you have sex? No. It leaves both you and Mary markedly more cheerful and affectionate, which affects me positively. Sometimes it is distracting if I am trying to concentrate, but on the whole worthwhile, since it improves both your moods noticeably for up to seventy two hours.” 

“You’re saying that… you approve of us shagging because it keeps us happy?” 

“Broadly,” Sherlock said, waving a hand impatiently. “I am accustomed to how much you need physical intimacy and release. Anyone who spent five minutes with you in the company of attractive women could tell you as much. Such needs are messy and come with inconvenient externalities, but I understand that most people find them necessary. But this morning it didn’t improve your mood. It did the opposite.” He peered at John intently, and John felt his breathing go shallow and fast. “Something upset you. Could be performance issues beginning at your age, but Mary was far too cheerful this morning. In any case, you had sex more than once, if I recall.” He hissed to himself. “I had some interesting mold samples, I wasn’t listening carefully. If I had known it would become important I would have paid more attention.” 

John felt his cock twitch and start to fill at the thought of Sherlock listening carefully, focusing that big brain of his on figuring out their sex life. His face was hot and his collar felt like it was strangling him. His skin prickled.

Of course Sherlock noticed. “Interesting,” he drawled, steepling his fingers under his chin. “From you involuntary reaction to the memory, I would say you enjoyed it too, but it left you skittish and uncomfortable. Not a reaction I’ve ever seen from you before, ergo, something new, but not just anything. Mary is playful and inventive in bed; you never walk right the day after she uses her vibrator on you.” John choked. “Something particular which you enjoyed but which upset you. Perhaps something that upset your strong moral sensibilities, or your care-taking nature? You should know that fantasies about rape are perfectly normal and…”

“No, no, no, no, nothing like that.” John shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know how you walk all over an issue and don’t see the answer.”

Sherlock’s face twitched irritably. “If it’s so obvious, why don’t you enlighten me?” he snapped. 

“I really…” John drew a deep breath. Just tell him. Get it all out there. If he’s interested, maybe you could even… “I’m not comfortable with that right now.”

“After all that, you’re not going to tell me?” Sherlock scowled, lower lip jutting out. 

It was such a familiar pout that John had to smile. “Nah. Not today.” 

“Not today?” Sherlock huffed incredulously. “Fine.” He threw himself down at the kitchen table. 

John grinned wider. All that worry, and nothing had changed after all. He leaned over to nudge Sherlock’s shoulder. “What about that case then?” 

Sherlock blinked up at him. “The case? You want to take the case?” 

“Yeah, I really do.” John looked at the kettle, and then at Sherlock’s beautiful, vulnerable face. “Right now, there’s nothing I’d like better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait! Life got really crazy. There should be some more sex upcoming within a week or two, and then I am planning to tackle the events of SoT, which will be a chapter or two of feels. Stay tuned!
> 
> I struggled with the pacing of this, and how much the boys would voice their emotional turmoil (little clams that they are). What do you guys think? Did I do it justice?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Christmas at 221B!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've figured out the timeline here. The first three chapters all take place the second week of November (shortly after episode one, set on November 5th). After that, over the course of about a month we see them settle into routines and start touching one another more casually. It's mid-December by the time Mary starts messing with John's head about sex with Sherlock, and then the weekend before Christmas the last chapter happens, and Mary goes away with Janine. This is the Monday morning after that Saturday. The boys have spent not one but two nights on this case.

They hadn’t actually been handcuffed, but only because Lestrade had arrived on the scene before the duty officer had a chance. By midmorning they were back at the Yard, waiting on institutional plastic chairs in Greg’s office, while he tapped ferociously at his keyboard. John was dozing against Sherlock’s shoulder when he was startled awake by the trill of Greg’s cellphone. 

“Hallo? Ah, yes. Yes, they’re with me. No, no major property damage, although only thanks John’s quick hand with a fire extinguisher. Uh-huh. Yeah, ‘course they solved it. Smuggling ring, which we actually had a lead on before Sherlock barged in.” 

Sherlock crossed his arms and slouched down in his seat. “Without me you would never have found the hub of operations or figured out the pattern behind the wine labels which led me to the country of origin.” 

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Yeah, they’re fine. Happy as anything. Mmm? Oh, you don’t have to. We’ll put ‘em in a cab and send ‘em home in an hour. I can only draw out the paperwork for so long. Are you sure? Well, if you want. Alright. Yeah, see you soon.” He put down the phone. “That was Mary. She’s coming to get the two of you.” 

“I knew you were deliberately delaying the process,” Sherlock grumbled. “I don’t know why you’re trying to punish us for uncovering a multi-million dollar smuggling operation.” 

“I don’t know, attempted arson, breach of the peace, terrorizing holiday restaurant-goers, and oh, waking me at three in the bloody morning. Again.” 

“The fire was the result of cooking oil knocked over accidentally while John fought with the sous-chef. And we can hardly be held responsible if one of the most prestigious restaurants in the city is serving black market wine.” 

“You barged into a dozen fancy restaurants during the dinner hour and interrupted people’s meals to sample their wine. There are a lot of rich people upset with you right now, Sherlock.” 

“Not all of them. Some of them were a bit start-struck,” John yawned. “There was one old lady who pinched his bum. You should have seen his face.”  
Greg grinned. “I would have paid good money to see that.” 

“I know,” John chuckled.

Sherlock scowled. “It’s going to bruise.” 

John bumped his shoulder companionably. “Fist fights, bloody noses, cracked ribs don’t bother you, but God forbid anything mar your perfect arse.” 

Lestrade propped his chin in his hands, watching them. “I don’t know how Mary stands it," 

Sherlock’s shoulders tensed. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, the two of you are so…” He nodded at them, and John became aware that his knee was pressed against Sherlock’s, and their arms were touching from the shoulder to the elbow. “I mean, none of my business, ‘course. But it must be strange, living with your fiancée and your ex. Strange for all of you.” 

“John and I were never-” Sherlock began stiffly, but felt silent when John placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s and squeezed his fingers. 

John looked at Greg steadily. “It works for us.” 

“Ri-ight. Ok.” Greg nodded slowly. “Forget I mentioned it. I’ll finish the paperwork and you can be ready to go when Mary comes.”   
John nodded and sat back, but didn’t release Sherlock’s hand. After a moment, he felt Sherlock tentatively squeeze back. 

The silence was filled with the clatter of the keyboard and the muffled bustle of the station- footsteps, snatches of conversation, a telephone ringing. John’s eyes were drifting closed again, slumped against Sherlock’s shoulder, when the familiar squeaking of sensible shoes made him lift his head. Sherlock was already looking toward the door. 

Mary poked her head into the office and shook her head. “I should have known this is where I would find you two. Hallo Greg. How’s your holidays been?”   
Greg rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Bit rubbish, but I’ve got the kids Christmas Day, so that’s something to look forward to. Right now I just want to go back to bed.” He glared at John and Sherlock.

“Well, I’m here to take them of your hands.” 

“They’re all yours.” Lestrade waved a hand.

Mary smiled. “Yes, they are. I see London is still standing. Well done, you two.” Bending over, she kissed them both briskly and ruffled Sherlock’s hair. “Ready to go home?” 

“God, yes.” John started to stretch, and realized his hand was still tangled with Sherlock’s. For a moment he halted, looking down at their fingers twined together, then glanced at Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked and swallowed. “I need to get my hat from forensics,” he said after a beat. 

“Right.” John stepped back, letting their hands slip apart. 

“It’s on our way out.” Mary linked her arm with Sherlock as he levered himself to his feet. “Happy Christmas, Greg.” 

“Yeah, you too. Happy Christmas.” Lestrade met John’s eyes as Mary steered Sherlock out of the office. He shook his head, eyebrows raised. “Well. I’m happy for you, mate.”   
~

Mary snuggled between them in the taxi, an arm linked through each of their elbows. “Sherlock was telling me about the statue. Very clever.”

“Did he tell you about the maitre d’?” 

She leaned her head on John’s shoulder, pressing her nose behind his hear. “What about him?” 

“Well, we didn’t think he was part of the operation, because when we did the stakeout he wasn’t one of the people handling the stolen bottles, but, uh,” Mary was mouthing ever so slightly at his earlobe. “We only expected the sous chef to be there when we broke in because he…he was sorting the next shipment.” John swallowed. “But when we got there, we, ah!” She bit his neck. “Mary!” 

“When we arrived we discovered the maitre d’ and the sous chef in coitus on the range in the kitchen.” John jerked his gaze up and saw that Sherlock was watching them intently, eyes dark. A shudder ran through him. “He almost brained John with a serving platter.”

“Yeah, then you almost set the damn place on fire,” John managed, short of breath. Mary had a hand on each of their thighs, fingers creeping along John’s inseam. 

“It was a distraction.” Sherlock’s voice was deep, rougher than usual, and his gaze was still focused on them and John’s throat was tight with the pounding of his heart. 

He put a hand over Mary’s, lifting his back to the safe territory of his knee. “Not. Mary. Not now. Please.” 

“Of course.” Immediately she leaned back, settling against Sherlock’s shoulder, her spit turning chill on John’s neck. Glancing between them, Sherlock frowned, assessing. 

“How was your weekend?” John asked, to snap the tension. 

“Oh, lovely. Very restful. Janine and I are both so busy we hardly ever have time to just sit and talk.”

“Exhibitionism?” Sherlock asked suddenly. 

“What?” John coughed. 

“The thing. From yesterday. You and Mary.” 

“Ah. No. Not… really.” Mary raised her eyebrows at John. “I was, ah, a bit off the morning you left. Sherlock was trying to figure out why.” 

The corner of Mary’s mouth lifted. “You didn’t tell him?”’ 

John’s cheeks felt warm. “No. It didn’t seem… no.” 

“Well, we’ll have to work on that, won’t we?” Mary sat back, looking out the front window, a smug smile on her face. The lurch in John’s stomach was a queasy combination of excitement and apprehension.   
~

“Happy Christmas, John.” Mary plopped herself down on his lap, and only John’s army reflexes saved his glass of wine from being spilled all over his armchair. 

Carefully he set it aside, putting his hand on Mary’s hip and tilting his head up to kiss her. In the grate, a small fire crackled. “Happy Christmas.” 

“Mmmm.” She settled closer, changing the angle of the kiss to snog him properly, threading a hand through his hair. The hem of her blouse rode up, and his fingers drifted over the warm skin of her lower back, across the knobs of her spine, to the hem of her skirt. 

There was a crash from the kitchen followed by a metallic _oi-oi-oi-oing,_ and Sherlock yelled, “It’s fine! Don’t come in!” 

Mary lifted her head. “How much longer do you think he’ll be?” 

“No idea. Think he’d notice if we went upstairs for a quickie?” 

“John!” She cuffed him lightly on the head. “He said he wanted to surprise us. It would be horribly impolite to abandon him for a shag.” 

“Why does politeness only go one way with Sherlock?” John mumbled against her shoulder. 

“Would you want him any other way?” Mary asked, stroking his hair absently. 

“… S’pose not,” he muttered. 

She stilled. “Did you two have a talk, then?” 

“A bit.” 

“Mmm. Did it help?”

John’s nose was pressed in the hollow of her collar bone. She smelled like cotton and sandalwood soap. “Yeah.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No.” Nuzzling against her neck he sucked a light mark onto her skin. “I don’t want to talk.” 

Her voice dropped wickedly. “If you really want a shag, I bet he wouldn’t he wouldn’t mind if we got started here while we wait.” 

John felt his whole body shudder and his cock pulse. His fingers dug into her hip and shoulder. “Mary…” 

She wiggled on his lap. “I can tell you like that idea. Imagine him walking in with your hands up my skirt. Watching you getting hard while you finger me.”   
John surged up and kissed her fiercely, running his hands up her back, clutching her closer. She moaned against his lips and squirmed to get a leg across his hips, skirt rucking up around her waist. His fingers dug into her hips and her toes curled against his thigh. 

Suddenly she pulled back, lifting her nose. “Do you smell that?” 

John sat up abruptly, almost dislodging her from his lap. “Is something burning?” 

“No, it smells like-“

“Oh my god-“ 

“Biscuits.”

“He’s not-? Surely.” No longer about to leap up and dial 999, John relaxed, adrenaline ebbing in his blood stream, making his heart pound. “Sherlock bloody Holmes… Would you eat something he baked?” 

“Did he ever cook anything, when you were living together before?” 

“Not that I can remember. Eating was dull.”

“I suppose I trust him not to poison us,” Mary mused. “Not accidentally, anyway.” 

John snorted. “I could tell you stories.” 

“I treasure my ignorance.” There was a clattering and slamming from the kitchen, making them both look up. After a few moments of suspicious silence, Sherlock strode out, carry a tray of biscuits and wafting a delicious smell of vanilla and caramelized sugar. Setting the tray down on the table beside them, Sherlock stood back, watching them expectantly. “Well?” There was flour on his nose, and in his hair. 

“For us, Sherlock?” Mary took a biscuit from the plate, sniffed it, and took a bite. She made a noise of surprise. “Try this, John,” she said, muffled. 

With some trepidation John took the bite from her fingers. It crumbled buttery and sweet on his tongue.

Mary licked crumbs off her fingers. “These are delicious.” 

“Elementary chemistry,” Sherlock said stiffly. 

“This is a lovely Christmas present, Sherlock,” Mary said, smiling up at him. 

“Simply a recreation of a recipe of Mrs. Hudson’s. Duplicability- science at its most basic. A pity she isn’t here, although considering her date this evening is a retired escort, she may very well be enjoying her Christmas without biscuits. In the future I will have to compare batches to see if the consistency and taste is truly replicable or if it is simply…” 

“Sherlock,” Mary interrupted, taking hold of his sleeve. “Thank you.” Tugging on his arm until he leaned down, Mary craned her neck and pressed her mouth against his. With Mary still on his lap, John could see their lips slide together, Sherlock’s slightly parted in surprise, Mary’s sealing against them with a barely visible pressure. John felt his heartbeat lurch, as if his aorta was momentarily pumping molasses instead of blood. 

When Mary pulled away, Sherlock just blinked, frozen. Fire light gleamed off a smear of dampness from Mary’s mouth on his lower lip; John couldn’t stop staring at it. 

Sberlock stepped back sharply, and whirled around. Worried, John readied himself to get up and go after him, but Sherlock only strode to the other side of the room and picked up his violin. The opening note was abrupt and harsh, but settled swiftly into an unfamiliar ballad. 

Mary sighed and settled back into John’s lap, sitting sideways on the chair so her back and knees pressed against the arms, and her shoulder was against John’s chest, her head in the crook of his neck. Absently, John stroked the small of her back with his fingertips. Sherlock was looking away from them, out the window, swaying with the music.

Tilting her head, Mary nuzzled under John’s ear. Her hand touched his shoulder lightly, and slid down his arm, fingers slipping under the cuff of his sweater, grazing across the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, making him shiver. His body was eager to resume where they had left off, heart beating quickly. She trailed her fingers over his belly to his upper thigh, making the muscles in his stomach twitch. His cock was mostly soft but heavy-feeling between his legs, at least until Mary slid her small, hot hand into his lap and squeezed his prick brazenly through his trousers. John’s hips jerked. “Mary…” 

“Shhh. I’m listening to the music.” 

Knuckles white on the arms of the chair, John concentrated on breathing deeply, and not making noise. Was Sherlock aware of what they were doing? Could he deduce it just from the sound of their breathing, the rustle of their clothes? With his back to them, he appeared entirely absorbed in his music, and he could be oblivious when he was focused. 

Mary’s hand slid down to cup his balls. John swallowed a groan and let his head fall back against the armchair. 

“Open your eyes,' Mary whispered, breath gusting against his ear. “Don’t you want to watch him?”

His eyes snapped open, and then he blinked them closed deliberately. “No.” 

“Hmmm. Suit yourself. He’s so lovely when he plays, caught up in it, focused. Passionate. I wonder if that’s what he would be like making love.”   
John realized he had cracked his eyes open, and was watching Sherlock’s back. His white shirt revealed the narrowness of his waist, teasing at revealing the shape of his shoulder blades and the curvature of his spine. The fabric shifted and pulled taut across his broad shoulders as the strings wailed under the bow. 

Abruptly, the music stopped, and Mary lifted her hand off John’s prick as Sherlock turned around. Panting, John tried to pretend he hadn’t just been in the middle of being jerked off in front of his best friend. Sherlock’s eyes flickered over them, but what he said was, “John, the fire needs more wood.” 

“Right. Budge up.” He patted Mary’s hip. Normally, John might have grumbled, but at the moment he was just glad to have the chance to stand, tugging his sweater down, and to rearrange his trousers surreptitiously as he bent over the fireplace. A shower of sparks rose as he prodded the glowing embers with the poker, and tossed the last of the wood from Tesco on the fire. Small, determined orange-blue flames licked up around the logs. 

When he turned, he saw Mary cross-legged on the carpet, tugging Sherlock down to sit beside her. She extended a hand imperiously. “Come join us, John.” Sherlock was wearing the bland expression of disinterest that meant he was paying close attention to the proceedings. Mary scooted to the side and patted the rug between herself and Sherlock. 

With some trepidation. John settled between them, facing the flickering glow of the fire. His thigh was pressed against Sherlock’s. Mary nestled against him with a sigh as John slid an arm around her. He felt the brush of her fingers on his knee and twitched. “You’re not going to…” 

“No, just this,” she said softly. “Right now, just this.” She twisted a little, and, shifting to accommodate her, John found his back and side pressed against Sherlock’s chest. He could feel Sherlock inhale abruptly. For a moment, no one breathed, and then a log collapsed in a flurry of starry sparks and they all exhaled together. 

John closed his eyes, leaning against the solid, living warmth of Sherlock, arms tight around Mary’s waist, nose buried in her hair. The fire hissed and popped. Distantly, in the street outside, carolers were singing, not quite on-pitch. Tilting his head, John could feel Sherlock exhale against his ear, breath tickling his neck. He closed his eyes. Just this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of details- In the US, if you live in the city, you can buy firewood at the grocery store. I assume the same is true at Tesco. Also, does the doorway between the living room and kitchen close in 221B? We are pretending it does. I am making shit up. *handwaves*   
> I understand that exhibitionism of this kind is fairly taboo in Britain- not sure if I'm handling the dynamic believably.   
> Wheew! It's so amazing hearing all your comments and encouragements! I love that you all are enjoying this as much as I am.   
> Next chapter in a week or ten days. As always, tell me what you imagine in this 'verse... your ideas continue to inspire me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MOAR SEXYTIEMS

January brought biting winds and sheets of freezing rain to London, dropping the crime rate through the floor. Apparently, even the most hardened thieves and killers were staying home with a cup of tea. 

Sherlock had graduated from pacing and ranting to lying motionless on the couch, staring ferociously at the ceiling. Thankfully, John had spent most of te transition process at the clinic. When he had left that morning, Sherlock had been tromping round the living room, kicking over books. By the time he returned, Sherlock had ensconced himself in his customary place, rousing only to make scathing remarks about the dullness of John's job and the tediousness of wedding planning. 

“Wedding planning?” John asked. 

“Yes. Weddings have themes, John. Did you know that? As if it were an essay on a classic novel. Preposterous. I plan to delete the information as soon as this is done.” 

“Uh. Is this for a case?”

“I would have thought you would be aware of your own wedding. Mary and Mrs Hudson have been in and out all day chattering about maddeningly dull matrimonial details.”

“Mary... is planning our wedding?” John echoed faintly

“That is the general expectation after proposing,” Sherlock huffed Impatiently. “Keep up john. You gave her the ring, you've got no one to blame but yourself.” 

“I’m not... I don't want to blame anyone. I’m… very happy. I just, didn't expect it to happen so fast...? I thought we had agreed that we would have a spring wedding?”

There was a clumping on the stairs, and Mary shouldered into the room, arms full of books. “Yes, well, spring weddings start in January.” She dropped a kiss onto his head, “How was work?”

“It was fine. Does it take six months to plan a wedding?”

“In London in May? Aha, yes.” The stack of books thudded on the coffee table, and john saw that they were actually thick magazines with worrying pictures of white dresses and flower arrangements on them. 

“Right. I...hadn't thought about it.” He frowned. “Should I be helping you at all?“

“Do you have a few minutes right now? Mrs Hudson has been helping me, but I want to go over the details with you.”

“Oh boy,” John stretched. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Mary tugged a wrinkled sheet of paper out the stack and sat sideways on his lap. “We put together an outline for a budget. Not too much, of course, and we’ll split it evenly.”

He shifted to settle her comfortably against his chest, hand on her back. “You sure? I make more than you do. I don’t mind.” 

“Splitting it,” Mary said firmly. “I’ve got savings.”

“You’re sure? I’m more than happy to…” 

“John.” 

“Right, ok. Sorry.” John frowned at the paper. “Caterer, venue, clothes, right. Photographer, ok. How much for flowers? Jesus.” 

“Now, we put together a list of venues that meet our budget. Do you have any particular preferences?”

“I don't see why you cant simply be officiated,” Sherlock interrupted. “Or I'm sure I could convince Mycroft to just file the relevant paperwork. You could be officially married by tomorrow.” 

John rolled his eyes. “We’re going to do this properly, Sherlock. It’s a day that never happens twice.” 

“Statistically untrue,” Sherlock mumbled. “A little more than half of all first marriages end in divorce, and of those, two thirds go on to be married again. In fact the average number of wedding days for a British citizen is-”

“Sherlock!”

“Fine,” he huffed, sinking back on the couch. “Go on, plan your statistically unlikely marital bliss.” 

“What about the three of us is statistically normal?;” Mary asked gently. “Sherlock, do you want to hep us plan? I don’t want to leave you out if you want to be involved.” 

“I have better things to do with my mental capacity.” 

“Of course. So John, of the locations for the reception, there’s the hall in Hampstead, or the one in Eltham, I thought those two were the best option. Of course, we would go visit before making a final choice.”

John flipped between the two pages. “Well, I can’t say it matters much to me… I trust your judgement.”

“Alright. You should start thinking about who you want to invite. Mrs. Hudson and I were talking about color schemes, but you don’t care about that at all, do you?” Mouth tipped up with amusement, she looked at him sideways. “I can see your eyes starting to glaze over. Tell you what, love, if there’s anything you specially want, let me know, if not, I’ll just run things by you before we finalize them.” 

“Sounds lovely.” He craned up to kiss her. 

“Mmm.” She chuckled against his lips, cupping his neck to hold his head in place, mouth slanting open and wet against his. John’s fingers toyed with the hem of her blouse, not serious about undressing her, just enough to splay his hand at the small of her back, skin warm against skin. Squirming to shift on his lap, she managed to twist from sitting sideways on his lap to get one knee between his thighs and turn to face him more fully. Leaning up against his chest to snog him, she could feel him start to get hard against her hip. 

When she rocked against him a little, John pulled away and shot a nervous glance at Sherlock, on the couch, whose eyes were closed, apparently lost deep in thought. 

Mary gave his hair a sharp tug, bringing his ear near her mouth. “Want to take a risk, John?” she whispered.

John shuddered, fingers digging into her hips as he ground up against her. His erection throbbed against the zip of his jeans, and Mary made an almost inaudible whimpering noise as his thigh ground between her legs. They clutched at each other, trying to stay silent, swallowing little noises, panting against one another’s necks, biting down to muffle sounds. Mary had shoved the hem of his jumper up enough to run her fingers teasingly along the waistband of his trousers, and John had a hand up Mary’s shirt, cupping one of her small, warm breasts, thumbing at her nipple. 

“This was the new thing!” Sherlock blurted. 

John startled so hard he bit his own tongue and almost tipped Mary off his lap. 

“The new element of your sexual interaction that made John so uncomfortable.” He was sitting up on the couch, hair standing up wildly, gaze fixed on them, slightly manic, and John’s face felt hotter than his worst sunburns in Afghanistan. “Clearly an element of exhibitionism, but you haven’t indulged at all at the Yard or at Bart’s, relatively non-threatening familiar locations which would be ideal for exploring a kink for public sex. However there has been consistent escalation when the three of us are alone together. Initiated by Mary, consistent with John’s initial discomfiture, but John is clearly aroused by it. Without a baseline, I cannot compare it to his reactions to other sexual stimuli,” John bit back a groan. “but the fact that you continue to pursue it indicates that it is satisfying for both of you. The fact that you only indulge in private with the three of us suggests that I am… part of … the scenario.” Sherlock trailed off, blinking. 

“Clever,” Mary purred. “You don’t mind, do you Sherlock? We aren’t bothering you?” 

“It’s very distracting.” His voice cracked a little, and John felt his cock twitch at the sound. 

“Do you want us to stop?" 

There was a long moment of silence. Unable to look at Sherlock, John pressed his face against Mary’s neck. He could feel her heartbeat in her carotid artery, fluttering against his cheek. 

“No,” Sherlock breathed. 

Mary ground down against his erection and John whimpered helplessly into her mouth as she kissed him. His fingers flexed, digging into the flesh of her breast, and his hips jerked involuntarily. His skin prickled with the tangible knowledge of Sherlock’s eyes on them. Sweat was beading at his temples, and the small of his back. Mary was rolling her hips as if she were riding his cock, groaning softly against his lips, the same breathy noises she made when John fucked her slow and hard, and he was so turned on, he could hardly kiss her, mouths open and slack against each other, breathing together, warm and damp. 

Putting his hands on her hips, John pulled her down against him as he bucked up, fast enough that her breasts bounced. They hadn’t gotten her shirt undone, but he leaned down to suck at her nipple through the fabric of her shirt. Her fingers tightened in his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp, and the edge of pain lit all the nerves in his body.

He sucked in a breath. “Mary, I’m going to, I’m going to-”

Mary stilled abruptly, and John let out a long groan, orgasm just out of reach. After a moment he blinked and raised his head from her shoulder. She was looking away from him - at Sherlock he realized with a lurch in his stomach. Sherlock looked shattered. His cheeks were flushed and his mouth slightly open, red where he had bitten them, and even across the room John could see that his pale eyes were dilated till the dark pupil swallowed the iris. For a long, fragile, singing moment they were all frozen, Mary on John’s lap, watching Sherlock watching John. Then, with the delicacy of a dancer, she extended a hand silently. An invitation. 

Sherlock lurched to his feet and oxygen rushed back into John’s lungs, only to have it punched out of him when he looked down and saw Sherlock’s erection distending the front of slacks. He didn’t have time to recover from that realization because Sherlock was stumbling across the room toward them, almost tripping over the coffee table. He fell to his knees beside the armchair with a resounding thud 

John’s breath was coming in short, labored wheezes. His whole body was tingling with the nearness of his orgasm. If he so much as moved his hips, he was going to come. Mary was rocking on his lap, panting in his ear. Shoving a hand down the front of her pants, John cupped his fingers around her pubic bone, too far gone for the delicate coordination of fingering her, letting her grind herself against his palm. She groaned and her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “John. I’m close. I’m going to- John’s going to make me come.” It took him a split second to realize that she was talking to Sherlock, but when he did it felt like being dunked in boiling water. His eyes flew open and h met Sherlock’s gaze. He was close enough to touch, cheeks flushed and lips parted, eyes devouring them both. A shudder ran through JOhn from the root of his cock to his toes, and he shouted, burying his face in Mary’s shoulder as he came, free hand clenching involuntarily around a fistful of fabric. 

There was a ringing in his ears as the cascade of orgasm ebbed away. His limbs were leaden, extremities tingling as all the blood in his body returned to its normal circulation. He felt light headed and slow. Mary was curled against his shoulder making contened purring sounds. John blinked his eyes open and lifted his head.

An aftershock twitched through his cock as he met Sherlock’s gaze. John realized that he had clenched a fist in the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, wrinkling the white cotton. Deliberately, John unfolded his fingers. 

Sherlock’s chest was visibly heaving and his lips glistened as if he had licked them, and he hadn’t taken his eyes off the two of them. The silence stretched, deepened by the drumming of the rain on the windowpane. 

“Is that…” John said eventually. “Is this something we do, now?” 

Sherlock swallowed. “I am not aware of a social protocol for the aftermath of a sexual encounter with your fiancee and flatmate simultaneously.”

“No. Uh.” John looked down at the obvious bulge of Sherlock’s erection stretching the front of his trousers. “Do you want…?” He trailed off.

Sherlock shook his head. “That part doesn’t interest me.” 

“And this part…does?” John asked cautiously, gesturing vaguely between himself and Mary. 

“Certainly. Your reactions are fascinatingly diverse and subtle. It is an opportunity to catalogue an immense amount of data about your experience of sexual pleasure, and your social identity. My own physical response is incidental and uninteresting to me. If it persists, I take care of it as efficiently as possible.”

“Right. Right.” John took a deep breath. “Christ. Ok.”

“This has unsettled you. You have expressed embarrassment from the start about this kind of sexual expression.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s bloody well embarrassing.” John rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Mary, I can’t feel my feet.” 

She grumbled but shifted and rolled off his lap. “I’ll put the kettle on.” 

“Interesting.” Sherlock steepled his fingers as she disappeared into the kitchen. “Embarrassment commonly causes loss of erection in men, but that was not the case in this situation. You have a strong awareness of social conventions, but frequently act in ways that disregard them. In this case, you feel as if you should be embarrassed, but are not actually experiencing the psycho-physical symptoms.” 

“Ok.” John pursed his lips and got awkwardly to his feet. “I’m done with this conversation. I’m going to change my pants and have a wash.” He stalked out of the sitting room with as much dignity as he could muster with the front of his pants stained with drying come.  
~

That evening, John was making dinner and Mary was on the sofa answering emails, when Sherlock stalked into the living room. “Not the hall in Hampstead,” he said abruptly. “It’s clear from the description you printed that the owners became involved in money laundering for a small time arms dealer after loosing their family fortune investing in shady overseas manufacturing operations. No particular reason that would affect your experience renting the hall, but it seems courteous to avoid criminals in the hope of not working on your wedding day.”

“Sherlock Holmes, wedding planner,” Mary said smiling. 

“God forbid. I simply can’t leave you all to struggle along in your pitiful ignorance.” 

Mary chuckled,”I knew we kept you around for a reason.” 

“Perhaps, a reason or two?” he said, lifting an eyebrow. 

She shrugged, and grinned. “Perhaps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not _quite_ the threesome some of you are waiting for, but we're getting there! I know some of you are excited for them all to hop into bed together, some of you are enjoying the slow burn, and some of you have said you appreciate seeing this trio without the heavy emphasis on sex. I have my own vision for these characters, but your input does influence me!  
>  I'd be very interested to hear feedback on the sexual/emotional stuff going on in this chapter. Does it work for you? Is it in character? Would you like to see Sherlock more involved?  
> Next up, we're gonna head into the feelz around Sign of Three! That will be another couple of chapters, with possibly another porny interlude.  
> Look for next update around the end of February.


	9. Chapter 9

A pot of something unhealthily yellow was bubbling, unattended, on the kitchen stove when John came down on Saturday morning. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. For a moment, John blinked at it, then, rubbing his forehead, grabbed the kettle and shuffled to the sink to fill it. It clanked as he set it on the stove. 

Taking a seat at the table, which was mercifully free from toxic experiments or yellow goo, John looked down the hall at Sherlock’s bedroom. The door was closed. The flat was quiet, except for the low whistle of the heating water, and the ongoing glooping of the yellow sludge. 

It was just like Sherlock to go off and leave some bloody mess heating on the burner with no one to watch it, giving off god-knew what sorts of gases. Resting his chin in his hands, John thought about his own sanity in choosing to live with the man. Screeching violin at three in the morning. All night chases through London’s back streets. Chemicals in the bathtub, poisons by the tea, body parts in the refrigerator. Grinning to himself, he remembered the first time he had found a human head in the fridge, then wondered why he was smiling. 

Of course it was no revelation that Sherlock had overturned his life profoundly. Had done so three times in fact. His initial appearance in John’s life, which had jolted him out of the tedious orbit of his existence; his death, which had destroyed everything solid, and his reappearance, which had toppled the fragile equilibrium John had built.

He realized his fingers were clenched in his lap so tight his knuckles ached, and he loosened them, breathing out. 

It had been a week since the incident in the sitting room. Flu season was in full swing, and John and Mary had spent long hours at the clinic. Sherlock had solved three “mediocre” cases, and Mrs Hudson had baked them pumpkin bread twice. Even kept busy by sneezing patients and petty criminals, John had found his focus drifting at inopportune times. It seemed pointless to avoid the fact that Sherlock’s presence had gotten him off harder than anything had in years. Just thinking about it was enough to send a warm shiver through him. 

He was sure it hadn’t always been like that. Obviously, Sherlock was riveting. He commanded attention, with his poise, his stature, his arrogance. Not handsome but striking, his cheeks and his eyes. His wild hair, always looking as though someone had been tangling their fingers in it. His expressive mouth. 

John blinked. Maybe it had been a little like that. 

The kettle whistled. John poured himself a cup, watching the teabag diffuse a dark swirl like ink through the hot water. On the stove, the concoction slurped. 

Without Sherlock, Baker Street had been unbearable. John had come back to the flat four times while Sherlock had been gone. Dead. Each time it had been an excruciating combination of the oppressive silence of his absence, and, infinitely worse, the familiar details of his presence made John imagine he was about to walk out of the kitchen at any moment. 

Would it have been more painful if they had been lovers, before? Certainly people’s sympathy in the aftermath had been heavy with the assumption that John had lost his partner, not just his friend. At the time, he had been too deep in his grief to even register their insinuations. Sherlock had been his partner, in all the ways that counted. John had been a comet in his orbit since the day the day he’d crossed London at Sherlock’s behest, and not walked out when he discovered he had been summoned to send a text. 

Looking around the kitchen, John thought about hundreds of mornings, himself bleary and uncaffienated, Sherlock manic and sleepless, moving around each other easily, John making coffee and toast, Sherlock doing some experiment or other, bickering automatically about whether Sherlock had eaten, or who used the last of the milk. How would that dance have been different if he had known then what he was learning now? He thought about coming home after a case, collapsing in laughter or exhaustion on the couch, and rolling over to snog Sherlock. About waking to the violin in the small hours of the morning and feeling the sheets still warm beside him. 

In that light, some of the sharp comments made by his frustrated girlfriends struck worryingly close to home. 

Had Mary seen, in those first hours after Sherlock’s debacle of a reappearance, what those other women had seen as well? What police officers, hotel clerks, and restauranteurs all across London had seen from the start? Was that why she had pushed them both into this strange, shifting three-way two-step?  
Would it have ever have begun without her? If Sherlock had never died, would John have ever thought about kissing him as anything more than a passing notion? Would he have ever noticed that his hazy dreams of a wife and a home had dissolved long ago into a Sherlock-shaped future? When had that happened anyway? John rubbed his forehead. And what happened now?

The stairs creaked, and John looked up as Mary shuffled into the room in her pajamas, feet bare on the linoleum. She gave him a soft, morning smile and dropped a kiss on top of his head. “Ready for today?”

“Today?” he asked vaguely.

She raised her eyebrows. “We’re going to look at flowers and caterers, and visit the hall in Hampstead. We talked about making a night of it, do some wine tasting, stay in a hotel.”

“Oh. Right, yeah.” 

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want. We can come back here.” 

“No, right, we talked about this, yeah? Be nice to… have a little space.” 

She cocked her head at him. “I thought it might be. You sure?” 

“Yeah, course.” He smiled at her, only a little distracted. 

“You were miles away.” She put a hand on the back of his neck, scritching lightly with her nails. 

“Was I? Just thinking.” 

Down the hall, a door slammed. 

“John!” Sherlock whirled into the kitchen, buttoning up his shirt. “Get your clothes on! Three bankers found dead in East London, all accompanied by graffiti of spiders! Last one’s still fresh, Lestrade texted me from the crime scene.” 

“Sherlock,” John started. 

“No time to waste. I suspect this one might be dangerous.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Clearly premeditated but not neatly, planned impulsively without attention to detail. Likely violently unstable.” He grinned. “Well, what you waiting for?” 

“Clean up your stove experiment first,” Mary said crisply, opening the fridge.

“Oh that, I’m finished with that.” Sherlock whisked the pot off the burner and upturned it over the sink. 

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed. 

“Perfectly drain safe. Just don’t pour anything acidic into the sink for half an hour or so. But bodies John! Coded messages! Why aren’t you getting dressed?” 

He rubbed his eyes. “Mary and I have plans today.” 

“So cancel them!” 

“No, Sherlock, this is important.” 

“When have your plans ever mattered in the past?’ 

Right, thought John, closing his eyes briefly, this is what dating Sherlock would be like. Utterly infuriating. “Now, they do,” John said slowly. “With is my wedding. This is Mary. Mary is different.” 

Sherlock fell silent, face wrinkling. Some of the excited tension drained out of his posture, even as he straightened his shoulders. “Very well then. I’m sure I won’t require you in any case. I won’t be encumbered by your hideously slow intellect.” He whirled on his heels and stalked to the door, shrugging into his coat with a sweep. “It will be refreshing.” 

“Sherlock,” John called, but he was already thumping down the stairs, and the front door slammed heavily.  
~

They tasted six cakes, countless bottles of wine, and an unending supply of stuffed mushrooms and other nibbly hors d’oeuvres. John checked his phone when they left the caterer’s, but there were no texts from Sherlock. They smelled flowers till John couldn’t tell the scents apart. They visited the hall in Hampstead. It looked fine to John. High windows, wide dance floor, garden outside, small kitchen abutting. He didn’t have strong feelings one way or another about where they got married. The important thing was that it happen, that it go smoothly, that it made Mary happy. He hoped it was making Mary happy, because it was certainly taking a lot of her time. She was on the phone three separate times to Janine as they wandered through the manor, making a total of seven calls to her through the day.

“Maybe you should be doing this with Janine,” John remarked. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mary said, pecking him on the cheek. “It’s your wedding too.” 

John wondered how the case was going. 

That night, they stayed at a hotel nearby. It was nice enough, nothing fancy. The woman at the desk made the perfectly correct assumption that they were a couple, and cooed over them when she heard of their engagement. John wondered how she would have acted if he had walked in with Sherlock. 

“What’d you think of the hall?’ Mary called from the bathroom as she washed up, over the sound of water running in the sink. 

John plumped the pillows and flopped back against them. “It was fine.” He had stripped down to his boxers. Their overnight bag was unzipped, spilling socks and the sleeve of a jumper out onto the floor. On the bedside table his phone buzzed and he jolted toward it. The screen lit up blue when he tapped it, but there was no new message, only the low battery symbol flashing in the corner. With a sigh, he turned it off. No need to have it buzzing all night. 

“We can look at some of the others if you didn’t like it.” 

“No, nope, it’s fine, great. It’s all fine.” His voice came out harsher than he intended. 

She poked her head out of the bathroom, face damp from washing, and raised an eyebrow. John sighed. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He put a hand over his eyes. “I’m just tired. Long day.” 

The water shut off with a wheeze of pipes, and her footsteps padded across the room. Peeking at her, he saw she was in her camisole and lacy knickers, feet bare, make-up washed off. This was the way he liked her best.

Crawling into bed, she curled up against his side. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, ‘course. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Mmm.” Mary ran her fingers over his chest. “You’ve been quiet all week. Ever since last Friday.” 

“Got things to think about, don’t I?” 

“And? Have you reached any conclusions?” 

John shrugged. “I’m sure you and Sherlock would know what I’m thinking before I would.” 

“Does it bother you? What we did?” 

He fiddled with a loose thread on the comforter. “Not as much as I thought it would.” 

“And you enjoyed it?” 

“Obviously.” 

“Are you attracted to him?”

“No. Yes, I don’t know, Mary! He’s… Sherlock.” 

“Yes,” she whispered. “And you’re mad about him.” 

John huffed a silent laugh that was more of a jolt of his shoulders. “Yeah, a bit.” 

She grinned. “I didn’t think you’d admit it.” 

“Seems a bit pointless to deny it, eh?” The corner of his mouth lifted. “After everything.” 

“Mmm.” Her fingers caught the edge of his nipple, standing up in the cool air. 

“Do you want to do it again, sometime?” 

“Maybe. Yeah. As long as I get to, you know, just us, sometimes.” 

“Course.” Pushing him back on the bed, she straddled his hips and leaned to kiss him.

They snogged lazily, John running his hands up and down her back, squeezing the soft curve of her arse, Mary carding her fingers through his hair, rutting against his thickening prick with no real purpose. When her lips were tender with his day’s worth of stubble, she drew back, tipping his head up and biting under his ear. “I want you to eat me out.” 

“Come here.” John knocked a pillow aside so he could lie back, and urged her up toward his head with his hands on her hips. She crawled up till she could kneel over his face and hold onto the headboard. HIs nose pressed against her bush, and she could feel him grin against her crotch. 

“You like this,” she grinned. 

He hummed against her, and slid two fingers into her without warning, making her jolt forward and gasp. “Oh! Mmm, yes.” His stubble scraped against her inner thighs and she shivered. “I fucking love that. Give me another finger. Mmmmm.” She rocked on his hand, grinding her mound against his mouth, groaning when he licked over her clit, tonguing under the hood where she was most sensitive, and then just when it was too much, pulling back to ply his tongue around where his fingers were buried inside her. “Stop teasing,” she gasped.

With a muffled chuckle he nosed back up and took her clit into his mouth, sucking rhythmically. “Ah, ah, John. Fuck, you’re good at that, oh god.” She rolled her hips between his fingers and mouth, “Mm, there, that’s- just that, yes, don’t stop, don’t stop, I’m going to, I’m close, John-” 

John’s fingers dug into her hips, prick hard and heavy against his stomach, and held her as she shouted and came, body jerking, rocking against his mouth, smearing salty slick over his chin. 

“Ohhh,” she sighed, slumping down on the bed beside him. “Mm, lovely.” Cracking her eyes open, she grinned. “Want to fuck me? Put me wherever you want, slide right into me? I’m so wet, John.” 

“Mary,” he groaned, rolling over to rub against her hip. “Condom?” 

“In the bag, ugh.” 

“Forget it, just this, this is good.” Stroking himself rapidly, he rubbed the head of his prick against her slit, between her slippery folds, making her shiver and moan, clutching at his shoulders. 

“Oh, god.” She tangled a hand in his hair and pulled him down to kiss her, sloppy and off center. “I wish-”

“Not without the condom,” he gritted out. 

“Do you want to come like this? Or…” She trailed her fingers down his spine, to tease at the crack of his arse. He stilled, hand squeezing at the base of his cock. “Yes?” she asked. 

“Yeah.” They eased apart, hands gentle on one another’s bodies. 

Mary patted his hip. “Lift your leg.” 

“Fuck.” John rolled onto his side and grabbed his calf, pulling his knee up to his chest. “Did you pack-?”

“Yeah. Stay there.” 

He dropped his head to the pillow, hearing the padding of her feet on the floor, the sharp hiss of the zipper on the suitcase, a rustle of fabric. Cool air on warm, intimate skin made him feel exposed and aroused in the most excruciating way. The mattress dipped again, and there was the unmistakable snick of the top of the bottle of lube. 

When she touched his balls the chill made him jump, but the slick warmed quickly as she trailed her fingers over his perineum, pressing gently at the root of his cock, and sliding back, teasing over the wrinkled furl of his arse, making it twitch. “Just do it,” he groaned.

Mary chuckled and pressed two fingers into him. 

“Fucking Christ!” They had been doing this for months, and he never got used to the shock of that initial intrusion. “Oh fuck.” Sweat broke on his forehead and the back of his neck. On his belly, his cock twitched and drooled, aching. When she crooked her fingers to brush over his prostate, his hips jerked, shifting everything. The pillow was damp against his cheek from his panting, open mouthed. Having something in his arse was an intense, intimate experience that was not exactly pleasant but shockingly erotic. The edge of pain made every sensation more acute. He could feel the tiniest shift of movement inside him.

“You want another?” 

“Yeah.” He hitched his leg up a little higher. His hip ached, but he wasn’t going to last much longer. “Don’t think I can’t tell what you’re leading up to,.” he panted. 

Her third finger inside him burned, and he gasped into the pillow. “And do you mind?” He could hear her smile.

She crooked her fingers, deep and John gritted his teeth, whole body shaking. “…No.”  
~

John hefted Mary’s overnight bag out of the cab and waved to the driver. As the taxi pulled away, John lugged the bags up the steps. Mary had the door open. The foyer inside was dim after the bright grey of the winter sky. “We’re home,” she called. 

There was no sound from above, but a door clicked and Mrs Hudson’s footsteps. “I thought you two would have gone straight there!” She poked her head out into the hall, a worried frown on her brow.

“Where?” John asked, putting down the suitcase. 

“Didn’t you hear?” Mrs Hudson wrung her hands together, “Oh, dear, they tried to reach you.” 

“My phone died. What’s wrong?”

“Sherlock,” she pressed her hand to her mouth. “He was so excited about his case. Went rushing off…” 

John felt his shoulders tense, adrenaline beginning to pound under his ribcage. “What about him?” 

Mrs Hudson shook her head, face crumpled. “He’s in hospital.”

Behind him, Mary made a noise of distress. 

John sucked in a deep breath, clenching his fists. “Where?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm such a bloody tease, I'm sorry! I gave you het sex and a cliffhanger, I dunno if that's what you're all here for, but somehow I suspect it's not. ;)  
> This is actually the first third of what was originally going to be the next chapter, then I realized it was long as fuck, so I posted the first part when I finished it. Next update may take a while, going to be a long feelzy one.  
> EDIT: Whoops, almost forgot! Love and kisses to Lisa for being a sounding board and Brit-picker. You are lovely.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John has some things to think about. There are a lot of thinky-thoughts in here. Bear with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: brief mention of suicide

John stormed into the waiting room at the emergency room. It was quiet at ten o’clock on a Sunday, a few people reading magazines, an elderly couple in the corner. Greg Lestrade was slumped over the stiff hospital chairs, snoring gently. “Greg!” A mother with a sleeping baby glared at him. 

“Whassit?” Greg jerked upright, blinking his eyes open. “John. Mary.” 

“Is he alright?” John barked, looming over him. 

Greg slumped back. “He’s going to be fine. Had forty stitches and a skin graft, but he’s going to be fine.”

“What happened? Where is he?” John barked. 

“In recovery. Jesus,” he rubbed his eyes. “What a night.” 

“What happened?” Mary repeated more gently, putting a hand on John’s arm. 

Greg ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing in furrows. “Did he tell you anything about the case?” 

“Not much,” John said shortly. 

“Well, turned out the three men murdered were members of a white supremacist society. A group of vigilantes had been targeting them, and then one of their daughters disappeared. We’re still sorting out the details. Anyway, Sherlock went rushing off to look for her body, he had a team with him, but you know him, never waited for anybody in his life. He was poking around in a den by the docks where the Nazis had holed up, and one of them came at him from behind, slashed at him with a knife. He’d taken his jacket off, and they sliced him all the way down his ribs. God, I’m glad you didn’t see it. Blood everywhere, all over that white shirt of his. Christ, almost gave me a heart attack when I arrived.” Greg shook his head and ran a hand over his scalp. “I swear I wouldn’t have grey hair if it weren’t for that man.” 

Mary patted Greg’s shoulder, but John was struggling to breathe against the constriction of his chest. All he could see was Sherlock, crouched over to look at something- he’d taken the coat off to keep it out of the mud, of course, the vain sod- shirt pulled tight over his broad shoulders. Hearing a movement behind him, half turning, an unseen assailant from behind. If John had been there, they would never have gotten the drop on him. It was his job to watch Sherlock’s back. He took a deep breath. “I need to see him.” 

“I don’t think they were letting anyone in, mate.” 

Ignoring him, John squared his shoulders and marched over to the desk. “I’m here to see Sherlock Holmes. Trauma victim in recovery.”

The woman at the desk tapped her keyboard. “Are you a family member?” 

“No. I understand the regulations, but this a very special case.” He felt Mary arrive at his shoulder. “I’m a doctor. He’s, we’re, he’s my…” 

“Boyfriend,” Mary interjected. “They don’t like to tell people. Please, just a few minutes. They’ve been together for ages. John is so worried.” 

The receptionist’s face softened. “Let me check his file.” The blue light of the screen flickered and shifted over her face as she clicked rapidly through the database. Her eyebrows rose. “Oh. Did you say your name is John?” 

“John Watson.”

“Date of birth?” 

“August 7th 1971.”

“Mr Watson, you should have said that you are civil partners.” 

“Civil partners?” John blinked. 

“You’re in our system as next of kin, along with a brother, M Holmes.” She smiled. “He’s in room 406. You can go right up.” 

“Uh, right. Thanks.” John turned to Mary. “I’m- I…” 

“Go on.” She kissed him quickly. “I’ll wait with Greg.” He squeezed her hand, throat tight. 

406 was a private room. Sherlock was hooked up to two IV’s, lying very still. Perched on the rail at the foot of the bed was a man in a suit with an umbrella propped against his thigh. John barely glanced at Mycroft, letting the door thud shut behind him in his haste. He knelt at the bedside, leg twinging, eyes darting over Sherlock. He was on his side, face buried in the pillows propping him up, skin pale enough to match the linen. Where the hospital gown gaped at the armhole, John could see the bandages on his chest. Picking up his wrist, John closed his eyes as he counted the pulse. Sherlock huffed out a breath and frowned in his sleep.

“The details of his treatment on on the chart,” Mycroft said softly.

That would require standing up. “Tell me,” John ordered. 

“The knife glanced off his scapula and slid down his side. Took off a strip of skin and flesh between his fourth and eighth rib. Police on the scene applied pressure immediately, and his blood loss never reached critical levels, although they did give him an infusion upon his arrival at the emergency room. After the stitches and graft, he was given a tetanus shot and injections of antibiotics.” 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John sighed, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s motionless hand. 

“It was… harrowing.” 

“I wish I hadn’t…” John swallowed. “I wish he would stay out of trouble for two bloody days together!” At his outburst, Sherlock wrinkled his nose and snuffled in his sleep. Silence fell. 

Mycroft cleared his throat softly. “I took the liberty of adjusting my brother’s medical records to reflect your role in his life.” 

John flicked his gaze up. “Civil partner, really Mycroft?” 

He raised one delicate eyebrow. “It had the desired result, did it not?” 

Looking back at Sherlock’s wrist in his hand, bones delicate under his fingers, pulse steady, John grimaced.

Fabric rustled behind him. “I’ll leave you two. There are pressing matters which require my attention.”

“Mycroft?” John didn’t look up. “Thank you.” 

There was a pause. “Don’t mention it.” Expensive shoes squeaked on the tiles and the door ghosted shut behind the elder Holmes brother. The room was quiet. 

John’s fingers clenched around Sherlock’s chilly ones. “Christ, Sherlock,” he whispered. He let his head fall forward till the back of Sherlock’s hand was touching his forehead, and breathed deeply. 

“John?” 

John jerked up. “Sherlock! How do you feel?” 

Sherlock blinked blearily and wrinkled his nose. “Slow.” 

Leaning over, John snagged the chart from the foot of the bed and flipped through it. “You’re only on seventy milligrams of oxycodone, but you’re likely still feeling the effects of blood loss as well.” 

“Tiresome,” Sherlock mumbled. 

“Are you in any pain?” 

Sherlock considered for an uncharacteristically long time. “Neck’s stiff,” he said finally. 

“You’ve been sleeping with it crooked,” John said. “Here, don’t move.” He slid a hand under Sherlock’s head, fingers carding through his soft curls. His skull was warm and heavy as John lifted it slightly. Sherlock tensed and made a whimpering sound. “Relax, just relax. Don’t try to help me.” Cradling his head, John adjusted the pillows just enough so that Sherlock could lie with his neck straight. “There.” Easing him back down, John rubbed his fingers gently against the tight muscles at the base of his skull. Sherlock sighed, eyes easing closed. “Better?”

“Mmmm.”

John let his hand rest against Sherlock’s jaw, fingers brushing the curl of his ear. His skin was cool to the touch, eyelashes sooty and stark against his deathly pale cheeks. Again, John saw a faceless attacker coming at him from behind, knife flashing. A flesh wound from the scapula to the eighth rib would miss major cardiovascular systems, but do significant muscle damage to the latissimus dorsi and be a serious risk of infection. Blood all over, Greg had said. If John had ever been queasy about human gore, years of army and medicine had cured him of it, but he felt sick when he imagined Sherlock sliced open like that. From behind. 

Even with the element of surprise, it was hard to kill a healthy man with a knife, but if the assailant had used a brick or a two-by-four, they might have fractured Sherlock’s skull with a lucky blow. People had tried before. John had lost count of the number of times he had tackled someone who was after Sherlock, or shouted a warning. Just after Christmas, John had almost been brained by a crooked banker with a floor lamp, and Sherlock had cracked the man’s femur with a poker. That was the point of having a partner, wasn’t it? They looked out for you, protected you when you were vulnerable, made sure you didn’t die from a moment’s lapse of attention. That had been bred into him in the army, and had carried into his life with Sherlock. Sherlock could never be trusted to take care of himself, it was John’s job to look after him. 

Sherlock sighed, fingers twitching. Gently, John took his wrist again and rested his head on his forearm, counting his pulse, letting his eyes close. Outside in the hall, he could hear the familiar day-time bustle of a busy hospital, soft voices, clacking shoes, the squeak of wheels on the tiles. The room smelled of disinfectant. 

Suddenly, Sherlock stiffened. “John?” he said urgently. 

John jolted, eyes flying open. “What! What’s wrong?” 

Sherlock relaxed. “You’re still here,” he slurred, eyes already closing again.

John swallowed hard. It felt like there was a stone in his throat. “I’m still here.”  
~

By the time they got back to Baker Street, darkness was already falling, a gloomy day turning into an early evening. Sherlock was staying in the hospital, after an energetic shouting match with two nurses and the doctor on duty, which he had lost. 

Their luggage was still sitting in the front hall where they had left it. John heard the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat click and scooped up the suitcase, taking the stairs three at a time as she poked her head into the hall. In the hall, Mary said something to her. John let the door to the upstairs flat fall heavily shut behind him. 

He unpacked their luggage, putting his jumpers neatly back in their drawer, tossing their worn clothes in the hamper. Then he went downstairs and put the kettle on. He heard Mary come up the stairs and shut the door quietly behind her. John washed three cups, frowned, and left one on the draining board. The kettle whistled. Mary took the tin of tea bags down from the cupboard. John hadn’t heard her come into the room. 

Taking his tea into the other room, he sat down in his chair and stared out the window. 

“Are you hungry, love?” Mary called from the kitchen. 

“No.” 

“You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

He heard her sigh, and the sound of the fridge opening. “Well I am. I’m going to heat up some of the soup you made last week. Should still be good. I’ll bring you some.”

“…Okay.” 

Outside, the first few drops of rain slithered down the the pane. John curled his fingers around the warm cup of tea.

Losing Sherlock had damn near killed him. There had been days, especially during the first few months, when John had taken his gun out of the drawer and laid it on the bed, just for the comfort of knowing it was an option. 

There had been no question that he had loved Sherlock, not then. In the throes of grief, John had never even considered what that meant about their history together, how that changed the dynamic of their cohabitation, their bickering, their laughter. All that was gone, and too painful to dwell on. 

Heaving himself to his feet, John wandered to the mantle and picked up the skull. It was smooth and cool under his fingers, yellowed with age. 

John already knew what it meant to love Sherlock Holmes. Had known for a long time, if he was totally honest with himself. It had been obvious to everyone but himself. Loving Sherlock meant violin at midnight, fingers in the freezer, long sulky silences, crime scenes, take out, backhanded compliments and genuine insults, frustration, laughter, worry. They already shared vast majority of their lives, it seemed impossible that they could grow more intertwined ( _codependent_ , John’s mind muttered). Would it really be any different to be _in_ love with him? 

If he accepted the fact that he was at least a little interested in going to bed with Sherlock- and the way his body warmed at the thought made it difficult to deny- then he had to confront the idea that Sherlock would be his partner in every sense of the word. They had been close before, close enough that from the outside others were always mistaking them for a couple. But John had slept with plenty of people. Sex kindled a kind of emotional intimacy that few other interactions could. It changed things, no matter how much you already loved someone. The thought of tangling himself with Sherlock in that way was… terrifying. 

That was always the risk, wasn’t it, when you loved someone, that you might lose them? 

John vividly remembered the first case, the cabbie and the pink lady, seeing Sherlock through two windows, too far away to reach, with the pill against his lips. The cascade of adrenaline, irrational panic for a man he had known less than a day, the cool tingle through his body that steadied his hands as he lined up the shot. 

If he had taken a wrong turn, shown up a moment too late, if he hadn’t had the gun with him… 

_You can’t always protect the people you love._

There was a clattering of dishes from the kitchen and the sound of running water. “Dinner, John?”

John blinked, and sank back down in his chair, still holding the skull. 

Mary emerged from the kitchen, carefully carrying two steaming bowls. Setting one on the table beside him, she bent and kissed him on the forehead. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled. 

They ate in silence, Mary at the desk, John in his chair. Outside, the rain hammered down harder. John finished the soup without tasting it, and scraped the spoon against the bottom for the last beans and carrots. He set the bowl down with a thunk. Mary was watching him, eating slowly. 

When she finished, she rose and picked up his bowl on the way back to the kitchen. John reached out and caught her hand abruptly. “Why did you do this, Mary?” 

Her eyes widened. “Do what?” 

“This.” He gestured around the flat, at the clutter of their lives together. “This…thing. With Sherlock.” 

“John.” Her voice was unbearably tender. She cupped a hand against his cheek. “Because I love you.” 

He huffed in frustration. “Yes, you want me to be happy, you said, but…” 

“No, John, you’re right. It wasn’t just that. I was being selfish too. Because I love you and I want to keep you. Forever.” 

He blinked at her. “That’s what marriage means.” 

“Yes.” She tilted her head. “And if we had been married, and had a flat of our own, and saw Sherlock once or twice a week, you would be happy. I believe that. But you would think about him. It would eat at you, a little bit more every day.” 

“I wouldn’t-”

“You would. Do you want to know how I know? Because when you thought he was dead, you thought about him constantly. Tiny things reminded you of him. It showed on your face. You wanted so much to stop missing him, and you couldn’t. He was too deep in who you are. It hurt you every single day I knew you.” 

John dropped his gaze. 

She squeezed his arm. “And now he’s back, I would be an idiot to think that would stop. You would still think about him all the time. Except instead of grieving him, you would feel a tiny little pang of wanting to be with him. And those moments would build up and build up, until you started resenting me for being in the way. It might have taken years. But someday, you would choose Sherlock over me. And I never want that to happen.” 

He swallowed. “That’s a lot of speculation.” 

“It’s not, really.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m going to bed after I do the washing up. Long day. Come up when you’re ready.” 

Her footsteps padded across the room, across the kitchen tiles, and the sink turned on, dishes clattering. She was humming to herself. John closed his eyes and pictured hundreds of days, thousands of moments of Mary in his life, barefoot Mary, laughing Mary, Mary dressed up, pissed off, understanding, fierce and forgiving; fifty years of mornings and evenings; a lifetime with Mary. Just Mary. 

The light clicked off in the kitchen and a moment later the stairs creaked. He could picture her undressing, washing her face, brushing her teeth, crawling into their bed. He loved her. He was happy with her. That was all he needed. It _was_. But he could have so much more. He could have Sherlock. Sherlock was _everything._

The rain had dwindled into a gentle mist outside, making halos around the orange street lights. Under his fingers, the surface of the skull was so smooth it felt silky. In the kitchen the refrigerator hummed and clicked through its cycle. Someone honked on the main street. 

Eventually, John got to his feet, putting the skull back on the mantle, and treading slowly up the stairs, listening to the old building creaking around him. There was no distant violin, or muffled cursing. He was eerily reminded of the silence in the flat after Sherlock died. 

Stepping into their bedroom, he breathed out at the sight of the lump of sheets that was Mary, some of the tightness easing in his chest. He stood for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, before going to wash up. 

When he had brushed his teeth, John came back to their room, stripping quietly. He lifted the sheets and slipped into bed, mattress dipping under him. Mary murmured and rolled toward him, curling against his side. John breathed out heavily, and wrapped his hand around her wrist, feeling her pulse beneath his fingers. He lay awake for a long time, counting her heartbeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled with this. John is such a reserved character- he doesn't say much of what he feels. It was hard for me to find his internal voice when he's contemplating these heavy emotional topics. Please tell me how you think I did. And Mycroft. He's hard to write. Feedback is much appreciated!
> 
> Also, making shit up about British hospitals! Anything correct about this is thanks to google, and my lovely Brit-picker Lisa. Some of the John-thoughts in this came from conversations with her. Others were inspired by the amazing WIP [ Adventures of a Single Girl in London](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1165873) by earlgreytea68, which is funny and touching.  
> And of course, all credit and so much thanks to all of you who motivate me to write by telling me how much you enjoy this! :)


	11. Chapter 11

The hospital was viciously dull. 

The sickly drowsiness of the drugs had made Sherlock sleep some of the night, but the unfamiliar sounds and silences of the ward had disturbed him, and he had found himself jolting awake, addled and disoriented, wondering why John and Mary were walking past in the hall, and who had spilled disinfectant everywhere. The dose of oxycodone was enough to make him slow and fuzzy, but not enough to eliminate the constant dull throbbing of the wound. He had memorized every inch of the room visible from his position. Hours had never dripped by so slowly. 

He heard the nightshift change over at 5 in the morning. Footsteps went by outside. Faint limp. The orderly had just had knee surgery. Possibly a dancing injury. Someone was rolling a cart with a loose wheel. Insignificant. By his best estimation, it was 8:15 when there was a distinctive tread in the hall, footsteps punctuated by the click of the umbrella on the tiles. 

“Go away!” Sherlock shouted. His voice was hoarse. 

Mycroft pushed the door open. “Surely I can stop to visit my own brother in hospital. Many would consider it courteous.” 

“Don’t pretend your motives are altruistic,” Sherlock fumed. “What are you doing back here?”

“Is it so hard to believe I am concerned about you?” Mycroft asked, widening his eyes. Closing the door behind him, he took the seat beside the bed, hands folded under his chin, umbrella resting against his knee. “I have taken time out of my day, traveled across the city in the rain, and endured the pedestrian unpleasantness of a public hospital to see you.”

“Your umbrella isn’t wet at all. Clearly, you got in a car while it was in a garage, and got out under the awning at the entrance before your driver parked your car. As for the unpleasantness of hospitals, it is a fact upon which we can agree. While you’re here, make yourself useful and get me discharged.”

Mycroft raised a judgmental eyebrow. “What have the doctors said about that?” 

“Imbeciles,” Sherlock scoffed. “Keeping me for supervision, as if I couldn’t diagnose an infection coming on. And anyway, living with John is practically like being in hospital.“

“Ah, yes. John.” 

“Whatever you’re implying, stop.” 

“Did I imply?” 

“Don’t be tiresome.”

Mycroft sighed. “I’m concerned, Sherlock.” 

“Spare me your sentiment,” Sherlock snapped. “It’s none of your business.” 

“On the contrary, if your current personal situation has caused you to be seriously injured, I consider that my business.” 

“I was knifed by a neo-Nazi! I fail to see how that has even a remote bearing on my personal situation.” 

“It has become apparent to me that you were being more reckless than usual. Armed racial extremists, Sherlock?”

“The girl was in danger,” Sherlock fumed. “Clearly she was still alive, although by now I doubt it. I suppose your incompetent troop of monkeys was unable to recover her.” 

“Concern. How touching.” Mycroft tucked a hand in the pocket of his waistcoat. Tight around the buttons, Sherlock noted vindictively. “In fact we did find the girl alive. She’s been returned to her family, although her father is in custody as a murder suspect. You were correct that she was being held for blackmail.” 

“Of course I was correct,” Sherlock scowled. “No surprise that the Yard wasn’t. Her father was not one of the murderers, only providing financial support. The kidnapping was a crime of opportunity. Sloppy.”

“Don’t deflect, Sherlock. You knowingly endangered yourself in this case. The police were less than a minute behind you. The time it would have taken to wait for backup would not have endangered the girl.” 

“When have I ever waited for anything?” 

Mycroft tapped his umbrella lightly against the steel leg of the hospital bed, making it ring. “You wait for your blogger often enough.” 

“Leave John out of this,” Sherlock snapped. He couldn’t roll over to put his back to his brother, so he closed his eyes pointedly and buried his face in the pillows. Mycroft sighed, and lowered himself into the plastic chair beside the bed, umbrella between his knees. 

“Now the wedding is coming, things will be changing in your life. It is not a leap of deduction to worry that you might react… strongly. I am worried you are not making healthy choices right now.”

“The third piece of cake was not a healthy choice,” Sherlock mumbled. He heard Mycroft take a deep breath and let it out slowly. He grinned into the pillow. 

“I am concerned about the impact this change could have on you, Sherlock.” 

“Don’t be.” 

“You haven’t always prioritized your own health in the past.” 

“I am aware you don’t trust me,” Sherlock said shortly. 

“I am merely looking out for you.” 

“Yes, that’s always been your excuse to keep tabs on me and pry into my life.” 

“No invasion is intended, Sherlock. I can’t help being aware of your… unconventional arrangement with John and Mary.” 

“Because you have spies everywhere,” Sherlock muttered. 

“Because I’m your brother,” Mycroft sighed. “This is hardly your area of expertise.” 

“It’s not yours either, is it?” Sherlock snapped. 

“So defensive.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow delicately. “Perhaps you are feeling your inexperience more acutely of late. I must admit I am not entirely clear about the nature of your relationship with Mary and John.” 

“Admitting ignorance,” Sherlock sneered. “I should call the nurse to have you checked over.” 

“I worry about you meddling in things you don’t understand. It ends badly.” 

“I could say the same thing about you. If you aren’t going to make yourself useful and get me discharged, leave.” 

Mycroft tapped his fingers on the handle of his umbrella, and got to his feet. 

“I’m simply pointing out that you have not demonstrated facility with relationships in the past. I’m sure you remember Victor Trevor. And the aftermath.” 

“Out!” Sherlock snapped. 

Inclining his head, Mycroft stepped out of the room, expression managing to convey tolerant superiority. 

Flopping back into the pillows, Sherlock panted. His stitches burned, and his heart was racing. He stared at the plaster wall and the clear tube of the IV. The back of his skull was buzzing restlessly and there was nothing to occupy his intellect. The smell of antiseptic made his nose itch. Intolerable!

Stupid Mycroft. Bringing up Victor, as if he had any idea what he was talking about. There had been a time before he was the British government when Mycroft’s knowledge of his brother’s life was often inference and guesswork. It was a childish power play for him, throwing around names from Sherlock’s past. Idiot. Victor Trevor had absolutely no relevance to Sherlock’s life, and hadn’t for almost twenty years. 

In his first year of university, Sherlock had been seventeen, arrogant, an outcast by choice and nature. Victor had been hapless, sweet, compassionate, a magician at making friends. They had first become acquainted when Victor’s dog introduced her teeth to Sherlock’s ankle. Apologizing profusely, Victor had bustled him to the health center (utterly unnecessary) and insisted that he buy Sherlock lunch. 

Somehow, their lunch dates kept happening. Sherlock had been utterly bemused at being so determinedly befriended. It was a phenomenon to be studied, and Victor, a maths student, was adequately bright. They ate together, studied together, argued late at night, exchanged books, and argued about them, did experiments (Victor mostly watched, except when he was the unwitting subject), and argued about experiments. And one night, after a heated argument on post-Marxist constructions of socialism, Victor leaned over their textbooks and kissed him. 

Their first fumbling sexual experimentations had been embarrassing and unsatisfying, and Sherlock would have had no more to do with it if it hadn’t been for his hormonal teenage body, which was mortifyingly, distractingly eager for sex of any kind. Without sexual release, focusing when Victor was nearby became a horrible struggle. Consequently, he spent many afternoons after lab on Victor’s narrow dormitory bed, sheets tangled around their knees, trying to stay quiet as they rutted and panted and experimented. 

Then one day, as they lay together afterward, with early evening sunlight streaming into the room and gilding everything golden, Victor had rolled over in bed and said “Sherlock, I think I love you.” 

Baffling. 

There was no rational reason that physical intimacy should provoke such a profound emotional attachment. Of course, there were other variables; time spent together, shared meals, some measure of humor, all things which classically constituted a relationship. Sherlock needed a control case, but the circumstances proved difficult to replicate. Experimentation showed that sexual contact with other men was significantly less physically satisfying and intellectually engaging than sex with Victor. Was that an indicator of love, then? Did he love Victor? It seemed… unspectacular. Pleasant company, but not earthshaking. Why was the world so preoccupied with the phenomenon- the mythology- of love? Further investigation was inconclusive. 

Then one rainy spring evening, Victor walked into his dorm room, and caught Sherlock investigating a skinny art student from behind. 

It turned out that being without someone could make the wanting of them infinitely more acute. Sherlock did not appreciate the discovery. 

All his sexual encounters after that had been vague and drug-addled. There hadn’t been many, and none particularly pleasant. Still, sometimes it was expedient. 

Clearly, sex and love were dangerously volatile and not worth the potential drawbacks. One simply had to look at domestic murder statistics to prove that. 

Physicality complicated relationships to an irrational degree. It exacerbated existing emotions and created illusions of intimacy. It led to rash actions and misunderstandings. There were conventions but not certainties, guidelines but not rules, implications and assumptions but not clarity. And the mediocre, unremarkable masses humanity navigated its complexities with apparent facility on a regular basis. It was infuriating! 

Sherlock had long ago dismissed the whole process as cumbersome and unnecessary. He had the work, and he had John. Erotic impulses were as distant as hunger and exhaustion, and just as easily ignored. 

Then came the baffling phenomenon of John and Mary’s apparent sexual interest in his presence. Sherlock didn’t have enough data to reach any firm conclusions - was it just an anomaly? Would it continue? - but the thought of learning more sent a pleasant warmth through him. Arousal. Pedestrian, yet compelling. 

The previous episodes of exhibitionism had proved remarkably compelling. Just the thought of them was distracting in a way he recognized from afternoons studying with Victor, when Sherlock couldn’t stop his eyes wandering. 

It had been embarrassing at the time- lacking control over his own body. But Victor had always grinned when he caught Sherlock eyeing his arse. Just like Mary did, whenever she saw him watching. It never failed to make him shiver. Why should a facial expression contribute to arousal? What bearing did it have on reproduction? There was no logic to it- even evolutionary biology failed to explain the complex tangle of human sexual rituals. 

If just the thought of John and Mary together had managed to radically derail his clarity of thought, then the actual experience of it had wrecked him. He had been utterly unprepared for his own reaction last week. His intention had been to gather data- an opportunity to observe a fascinating and hidden human phenomenon- but his own arousal had been overwhelming. The resulting data was confused and colored with Sherlock’s own reactions. He had been calculating John’s respiration and been distracted by the way his nipples showed through the fabric of his shirt. Instead of observing blood flow and flushing to the face, he had become totally absorbed in the way John’s mouth looked, bitten and wet. Useless data. 

Every indication was that the two of them were considering further including Sherlock in their sexual life, despite John’s brusqueness on Saturday morning- in fact, when John was sharp, it was a good indication that he was seriously contemplating something that made him uncomfortable. For a long time, the drawbacks had been much greater than the benefits of pursuing sexual relationships. However, his experimentation at uni had shown that an emotional bond made sex more satisfying. It would certainly be fascinating to revisit that. And there were other compelling variables to examine. Age. The presence of a woman. John.

The drawbacks were still salient, however. Changing the parameters of his relationship with John was dangerous; sex had demonstrably cataclysmic effects on relationships of all kinds. As they stood currently, Sherlock understood John’s place in his life- had catalogued every possible nuance and aspect of it. Acting on sexual impulses would introduce unpredictable and potentially disastrous variables. Unacceptable. 

Yet however much Sherlock wished to hold them in stasis, other factors were at work. The wedding, of course. 

Over the past few months the pair of them had demonstrated a hither-to unsuspected flexibility and creativity in physical and emotional intimacy. Surely their marriage wouldn’t change that? It made no sense. But John had always been a bit traditional about unexpected things. He didn’t mind body parts in the house, however much he complained, but he valued platitudes like "please" and "thank you". Inexplicable. 

That was the best thing about John. He was utterly predictable, right up until he wasn’t. There was no predicting what John Watson would do. It was frustrating. Unsettling. 

Sherlock didn’t get things wrong very often. But he had been wrong about Victor, spectacularly wrong. 

Being wrong about John was unacceptable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUGH. SO MANY WORDS. Not even that many words, it's not that long, but a lot of exposition and introspection. I AM SORRY because I really try to avoid loooong character rambling like this, and the last two chapters were nothing but. Next chapter will have more talking and fun stuff, promise!   
> This is my first attempt at Sherlock's brain. Tell me what you think.   
> Also, for those of you who haven't run across him, Victor is a canonical (ACD) uni friend of Sherlock's, and fanon for his first boyfriend. He has been written many different ways, and his relationship with Sherlock has varied from the adorable to the dysfunctional and abusive. I'm interested in what you think about my spin on it.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock was woken by the click of the door opening. “Whaazat?” 

The soft squeak of sensible shoes, the distinct rustle of her red coat. Mary. “How are you feeling?” A soft hand carded through his hair and the mattress dipped. 

He grunted and closed his eyes again. 

“John wanted to be here but he had to work,” she continued. “I’m here to take you home. Mycroft called to say you were being discharged.” 

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and then scowled. “Meddling again.” He tried to lever himself upright and froze with a groan. Forty stitches made themselves known. 

“Careful.” Mary got an arm behind his back and helped him into a sitting position. “He cares about you, you know.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Sherlock mumbled. 

She looked at him sideways. “He said something that upset you this morning.” 

“Just his noxious presence.” 

“Lying to me doesn’t work, you know. Sit tight.” Getting up from the bed, she went to the sink, and washed her hands briskly. Turning the water off with a paper towel, she snapped on a pair of blue gloves and rummaged in the cupboard over the sink. “We should really wait for one of the nurses on duty to unhook you, but the paper work’s already done, so there’s no point in waiting.” She bent over him, snapping a little plastic clamp onto the tubing of the IV in the crook of his elbow. “Don’t tell John.” In one quick movement she ripped off the tape, make Sherlock jerk and yelp. “Sorry. Worst part’s over.” Smoothly, she slipped the needle out, pressing down with a square of gauze. It was a ghostly sense memory for Sherlock, the familiar twinge of withdrawing a needle. “Done. Let’s get some clothes on you.”

They wrestled him into his clothes. The bandages and pain had effectively immobilized one side of his body. Moving his shoulder pulled the stitches, and he was clumsy from the drugs, and too long in bed. When they finished, he leaned against her, breathing hard. 

“How are you doing?” 

“Fine.” 

“You ready to go?” 

“Yes.” He didn’t move. 

“Do you want me to get a wheelchair?” 

“No.” That got him moving sluggishly, leaning heavily on her shoulders. Mary steered him out of the room and down the sterile white hall. The fluorescent lights were ringed in purple halos. The oxycodone was wearing off and the pain of every movement was brighter and sharper, but at least some of the unbearable fogginess was dissipating. For practice, he deduced the people they passed in the hall. Orderly, recent jaw surgery. Nurse having an affair with the assistant physician. Concerned parents, their son just survived a… mugging? No, suicide attempt. All so clear.

They took the lift to the ground floor and Mary hailed a cab, with unexpected ease. The red coat perhaps? Or because she was an attractive woman? Sherlock had never considered gender as a variable. Further study was required. 

The ride was objectively no more bumpy than any route through London, but every time the cab hit a pothole or uneven patch, the jolt sent a sharp throb of pain down Sherlock’s side. He gritted his teeth and looked out the window. Mary was sitting close, warm against his uninjured side. He could feel her watching him. 

“Doing alright?” 

He didn’t look over. “Yes.” 

“So, did Mycroft ban you from cases while you recover?” 

Sherlock hunched his shoulder and sulked at the window. “No.” 

“Ah. Up to us to keep you out of trouble.” There was a pause. “What did he say about John, then?” 

Sherlock whipped his head around, remembering at the last moment to keep his body still. “What makes you think he said anything?” 

“Well, your reaction certainly does,” she said blandly. 

He narrowed his eyes, surveying her, fighting the last wisps of drugged slowness clinging to his thoughts. Posture relaxed, hands folded in lap, face a mask of innocent inquiry, tone polite and neutral. Toast with jam for breakfast, and no coffee- likely they were out of milk. No makeup, tired circles under her eyes, but freshly showered. Hadn’t been expecting to go out. Mycroft’s call had caught her in the middle of washing the dishes. How was it that Mary, like John, could be so utterly, transparently ordinary, and still so spectacularly unpredictable? “What would you do if John died?” 

She raised her eyebrows. “I somehow doubt that’s what you talked about with Mycroft.” 

“If he was gone,” Sherlock pressed, “and you could never get him back, what would you do?”

“I would do everything in my power to prevent that,” Mary said levelly. There was steel in her voice rather than fear, Sherlock noted. 

“But you could live without him.” 

“Could I? Yes.” She was regarding him closely. 

Sherlock watched the shops slide by outside the window, face turned away. 

A warm hand squeezed his thigh. Her voice was much more gentle. “What brought this on, love?” When he said nothing, she continued, “He was furious with himself when he found you’d been injured. Felt he ought to have been there to protect you.” 

_He should have,_ Sherlock thought. That was the natural order of things. 

Picking up his hand, Mary laced their fingers together. Her palm was warm and dry against his. “He’s terrified, you know. Of losing you again.” 

“He handled it once. Moved on, found a wife.” 

“When someone dies, when a partner, a spouse dies, it’s shocking how much it hurts. How it touches everything in your life. He moved on so that your death wouldn’t kill him too.”

“Wasn’t dead,” Sherlock muttered. 

“Don’t let John hear you say that,” she said mildly. “Second, he didn’t move on, entirely. Take it from me.”

“But he-“

“He thought about you every second of the day.” Mary trailed her fingers over his palm. The sensation was delicate and startlingly intense. “Everything reminded him of you. You have always been a part of my relationship with John. I got used to that very quickly. Then, when you came back, we… adjusted. But nothing really changed, not at the heart of it. You were always there.”

Sherlock frowned, looking down at their hands. Hers was tiny and soft in his, nails clipped and practical. They rode in silence the rest of the way to Baker Street.   
~

Convalescence was not nearly so intolerable as hospitalization, but excruciating enough in its own right. Mary had banned him from any experiments involving movement or corrosive chemicals. It hurt to hunch over the microscope, and playing the violin was out of the question. 

Mrs. Hudson fussed and baked and the whole building smelled like biscuits and scones for days. Lestrade dropped by with a stack of cold cases, and Molly Hooper brought a cooler full of frozen organs. Both uttered the usual tedious well wishes, which Sherlock found to be irrationally cheering. He put his good mood down to their excellent gifts. 

For the first few days Mary stayed home to look after him, bringing him water and bullying him into eating a little. They sat together on the couch, Sherlock pouring over the case files from the Yard, and Mary scribbling pages of notes on the insipid details of weddings. Despite his limitations, it was surprisingly… pleasant. 

In fact, the only person who was less than solicitous was John. It wasn’t that he was unkind, simply distant. He worked longer hours at the clinic than Sherlock thought was reasonable, and when he was at the flat, he was reserved. He brought Sherlock toast and checked his bandages, kissed Mary hello and goodnight, read the paper like always, answered direct questions but didn’t engage in conversations much, and when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking, John barely took his eyes off him. It was unnerving. Previously, John had shown no qualms about starting a row if he was upset or storming out to take a walk. There was no precedent for this strange, calm silence. 

On Thursday, Mary went in to work. John was in his red chair, reading the Guardian, Sherlock was on the couch. 

She kissed them both goodbye, and squeezed John’s shoulder. “You two behave. And John, while I’m gone will you _please_ look over your half of the guest list? I wanted to finalize that last week.” 

“Right, I will,” John said, a little vaguely. Obvious that he had forgotten entirely. From Mary’s pursed lips she knew as well. 

“Good. If you do, we can order invitations by Monday, and they’ll be here by the end of next week.” She shrugged on her red coat. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.” 

“Have a good day,” John said. Sherlock had never been good at tuning out mindless platitudes from John, the sort he was capable of erasing when anyone else uttered them. 

When she was gone, there was silence except for the distant thud of the front door closing. 

Sherlock tossed aside the case file he had been flipping through. “Hopelessly amateur. If the police had examined the brother’s house at the time of the murder, they would have found clear evidence of the ongoing abuse. Predictable.” 

“Mm,” John said, not looking up. 

Sherlock scowled. “Cold cases aren’t unsolved because they were difficult, they’re unsolved because the incompetent police force didn’t stumble on the right place by sheer accident.” 

“Mmm.” 

“Well? Aren’t you going to defend them? Remind me that they do their best and they solve plenty of cases without me? Come on, John.” 

John put down the paper. He looked at the ceiling, then at the skull on the mantelpiece, and then out the window, daylight glazing his eyes bright and colorless. Sherlock studied him intently, but John still didn’t meet his gaze. There was something pinched and inscrutable on his face. 

“You know, the month after you died, I saw you everywhere,” John said suddenly. Sherlock blinked. Unexpected. “I’d catch a glimpse of someone from behind, around a corner, someone the right height and the right coloring, and for a second it was like everything inside me was… floating. And the next instant it would all crumple in on itself, because I knew it wasn't you, and it couldn’t be.” His left hand trembled on his thigh, and he squeezed it into a fist. 

“I think that happens, a little, after you lose anyone you care for. It happened sometimes in Afghanistan. Everyone looked the same in fatigues, covered in dust You’d see a friend from a distance and start to call out to them, and then remember they had died.” There was a deep furrow in John’s brow. Sherlock wanted to rub his fingers over it until it disappeared. “But you came back. And that was the cruelest thing you could have done. You know why? Because someday when you die, no matter if I watch it happen, no matter if I see the body, see you buried, there will be a part of me that hopes, and wonders. Every time I see a tall man with dark hair in a crowd, or the sweep of a coat, my heart will pound. And that will never stop. Because you proved once that my own senses were no match for the immortality of Sherlock Holmes. I will spend the rest of my life holding my breath for you to come back.” 

A hundred tiny sounds flooded the flat in the silence that followed. Air rushed into Sherlock’s lungs and he remembered that he could breath. A truck went by in the street outside, heavily loaded- delivery vehicle? No, moving van. Six litres, the average human lung capacity, mostly nitrogen. A pair of cats were yowling in the alley. Respiration, a semi-voluntary reflex, unusual among bodily systems, not like a pulse, you could hold your breath but not your heart beat, and Sherlock’s heart was _pounding_ and - 

And John was watching him, calm and coiled, the way he watched something dangerous. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, focused with effort, pushed away the clamor. John was waiting, was expecting a response, expecting to be _hurt_ , and it was ridiculous because John was everything, Sherlock would kill to protect him, he would _never_ hurt John- 

Right up until he had. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Had he said that at all? Why didn’t he remember? He opened his eyes. 

John looked… vaguely surprised. “Right. Well. That’s nice. Thank you for that. But it doesn’t change the fact that it happened.”

“I… have come to the conclusion that my actions, though at the time intended to minimize danger for all involved, had some less than ideal outcomes,” Sherlock said, haltingly. 

“Oh really? What bloody tipped you off?” John grimaced. “Don’t answer that, it was rhetorical.” He got to his feet, setting aside the paper, and paced across the room. “Sherlock, listen to me, I won’t say this twice. You let me think you were dead for thirteen bloody months. Imagine what would happen if I died. If we were chasing after a criminal, and someone hit me with a lucky shot, somewhere quick, the neck or the lungs. And I bled out in front of you, and there was nothing you could do to save me. Can you imagine that?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. John had no idea. “Yes,” he whispered. He could imagine only too clearly to experience of losing John. But he couldn’t imagine a scenario in which Sherlock lived long enough to experience much of it. “But you don’t understand. You don’t need me. Clearly. When I died, you moved on, you continued living.”

John shook his head, and, inexplicably, smiled. “Idiot. That’s why I’ve mostly forgiven you for putting me through the worst two years of my life. You didn’t understand what it would do to me, but I’m telling you now. It destroyed me. And now you have no excuse. If you do it again, I won’t be able to forgive you. When you love someone, you trust them to take care of you, and of themselves, because hurting them hurts you.” 

Sherlock frowned. “Love?” 

“Yes, Sherlock.” John crouched down in front of the couch, bringing them approximately to eye level. His voice was clipped and low. “Pay attention. Sherlock Holmes, I bloody love you. God help me.”

All the thoughts in Sherlock’s head jumped sideways, like a glitch in an old film. 

For a long, disorienting moment the constant clamor of observation- _ergo_ -deduction clarity turned hazy and washed out, like a surge of opiates, and Sherlock could not have focused on any of the details if he’d tried. It was vertiginous, except Sherlock had never been afraid of heights. 

He blinked. “You…” 

“Yes.” 

“...me?” 

“Mm, yes.” 

And John was still talking. As if Sherlock was in any state to listen. Silly John. Just like him to barge through the delicate cogs of Sherlock’s paradigm without noticing at all. What was he saying now? Ah. 

“I don’t know what I would do if I lost you again, Sherlock.” 

And _god_ how could anyone be so thick, how could John not _see_? 

“You won’t lose me John.” Just the opposite. There was nothing, _nothing,_ Sherlock wouldn’t do to keep John Watson. 

“That sounds like a promise.” John’s face was serious. 

Sherlock held his gaze. “Yes.” Semantically, it was indeed a promise, but it didn’t feel like one. It felt like fact, simple and empirical.

John’s gaze dipped down to Sherlock’s mouth, and he parted his lips slightly. Clearly- oh. Oh. 

It was a gentle kiss, coaxing and slow. Dozens of minute details burst into Sherlock’s consciousness- the texture of John’s lips, slightly chapped, their subtle movement, the taste and temperature of his mouth, the sounds of his breathing and the soft noises their mouths made together. John slid a hand behind his head, cupping the base of his skull, five points of heat and pressure at the tips of his fingers, the solid warmth of his palm. Nerve endings fired as if Sherlock’s skin were flayed open and raw. 

When John drew back, he was watching Sherlock carefully. Sherlock couldn’t do anything but blink and pant. Elevated heart rate and respiration without exertion, the familiar dizzy high of dopamine and adrenaline. He could see the minute pores and wrinkles of John’s face, the dilation of his eyes, the moisture on his lips. Sherlock wanted to press his fingers to the hollow of John’s throat, where the neck of his sweater kept the skin warm and secret, to count his heartbeats until Sherlock’s own pulse matched it. 

John cleared his throat. “Alright?” he asked. 

Sherlock swallowed. “Fine.” 

“Was that… okay? To do?” 

“Yes. It’s fine. It’s all… fine.” 

That made John smile, and chuckle a little. Sherlock felt his breath gust against his cheek. “Do you want… again?” 

“Again,” Sherlock agreed, and slid his hands into John’s hair. It was softer than it looked, a texture like cat’s fur where it was cropped at the back of his neck, skin warm, tendons shifting against Sherlock’s fingers, vertebrae knobby and strong. The details were overwhelming. Sherlock was hyper awareness of the tips of his fingers and the pit of his stomach. John’s mouth opened a little, warm and wet against his, shocking. 

Curling a fist in the soft shoulder of John’s jumper, Sherlock leaned into him and felt a flash of sudden pain down his side. He winced, and John immediately pulled away. “Careful. Was that your stitches?” They were both breathing hard. 

Sherlock scowled. “You don’t have to stop.” 

John sighed and eased him back on to the sofa. “We have plenty of time to take it easy. You need to rest now.” 

“Fine.” Sherlock closed his eyes and sulked, focusing on the rush of his inhalations until the shivering high had passed. Gradually his body relaxed, like loosening a bow. When he no longer felt as if his organs were trying to crawl out of his body, he cracked open his eyes. “Now bring me the guest list.” 

John’s brow wrinkled. “What?”

“The list Mary wanted you to review,” Sherlock said, impatient. “You want a wedding John. Therefore, I am going to plan it. Mary needs a helper and no one else can be trusted.” 

“No one else… can be trusted?” John blinked. “With my wedding?” 

“With your happiness, John. Do keep up. The list, now, before we are both old and grey.” 

“Right, right.” The sharp comment rolled right off him. That happened, sometimes, when John was feeling particularly confident of his place in Sherlock’s life. Belatedly, Sherlock realized that more often than not since Sherlock’s return, minor insults had made John snappish rather than amused. _Stupid_. The teeth of the gears bit together suddenly, and he should have _seen_ , it was _obvious_ , but Sherlock had assumed it was just anger. Clearly it was more than that. John was too much of an idiot to realize that Sherlock, having experienced living without John, was not about to leave him again. There was no reason for John to have spent the last four months worrying about it. But John was an idiot. 

He held out an imperious hand for the list. When John handed the paper over, he smiled and his fingers trailed over Sherlock’s palm. Clearly deliberate, physicality as a nonverbal expression of affection, an inefficient, subjective form of communication, but one John favored, especially when he was feeling cheerful. 

Sherlock focused on the wrinkled paper and the list of names in Mary’s loopy scrawl. John wanted a wedding, therefore, wedding planning. It couldn’t be that difficult. Imbeciles did it all the time. If this was what it took to show John what an idiot he was being, then Sherlock would do it. 

He could hear John humming as he puttered around the room. Picking up a book and putting it down. Moving the laptop from the table unnecessarily. Not tidying, just… wandering, with no clear motive, and - Sherlock glanced up- grinning like an absolute lunatic. Sherlock’s chest felt as if there was helium expanding under his ribs. 

Suppressing a smile of his own, Sherlock looked back at the paper. It took him a long time to realize that he was humming too. A new tune, a waltz. But there was no time to compose. He had a wedding to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... (hides).   
>  I dunno, guys. What do you all think?


	13. Chapter 13

John couldn’t stop grinning. 

He was familiar with the giddy euphoria of a first kiss, but he’d never expected to experience it about Sherlock, of all people. When he had imagined kissing Sherlock, he’d always though it would be as bizarre and extraordinary as everything else about their lives, but it had been just a clumsy, sincere kiss.

The front door opened and shut, and the stairs creaked. “I’m home!” Mary shrugged off her coat as she entered and glanced around. “Did I miss anything exciting?” 

John glanced at Sherlock, who was hunched over his laptop. Mary raised her eyebrows at him and John realized that he was smiling again. 

“Have fun without me, then?” John coughed. Mary grinned. Hanging up her coat, she came over to kiss him, looping her arms around his shoulders. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.” 

“Mary,” Sherlock said abruptly. “I need your input.” 

“Mmm?” She crossed the room and leaned over the back of Sherlock’s chair. “Don’t sit like that, love, you’ll put pressure on the sutures.” 

Sherlock huffed, but straightened up, holding a wrinkled sheet of paper over his shoulder. “I have reviewed the guest list you compiled. It is generally satisfactory. I eliminated two of his rugby mates and a distant cousin.”

“Ah, thanks for doing that.” She pecked him on the cheek. 

“I also reviewed companies selling wedding invitations and compiled a list of possible providers. You can look at the options for fonts and designs. According to timelines for wedding planning, we are already behind schedule for sending out invitations.” 

Raising her eyebrows, Mary tilted back the laptop screen to peer at it. “Yes, that’s why I’ve been trying to get it done. Let me make myself a sandwich and then I’ll look over these with you.”

“I’ll make you something to eat.” John got to his feet. In the kitchen, he put the kettle on and pulled out a loaf of bread and the leftover chicken from the night before. Getting a plate off the draining board, John glanced over his shoulder at the sitting room. Mary was perched on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, their heads bent together over the laptop screen, shoulders pressed together. A pulse of warmth flared under John’s ribs, and he turned back, grinning.  
~

John wasn’t sure what he expected in the aftermath of kissing Sherlock for the first time, but it wasn’t to be entirely ignored. Over the next few days, Mary and Sherlock increasingly spent their time discussing inscrutable details of hors d’oeuvres, floral patterns and color schemes. The crime wall had been taken over by lists, timelines, business cards, and endless, endless pictures of weddings. 

By Friday evening, John was itching to get out, and texted Greg. They met for a pint at their usual pub, where John went when he wanted to watch footie with mates and get away from Sherlock. Greg clapped him on the shoulder as soon as he turned up and said, “First round’s on me. I feel sorry for you, mate.” 

“Why?” 

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock is turning down cases to plan your wedding. Life’s got to be pretty crazy for you.” 

“You called with a case?” 

“Yeah, triple suicide. He didn’t want to hear a word about it, said he was researching florists.” 

“I didn’t even know you called.” 

Greg shrugged. “So, how crazy are they driving you?” 

“It’s not that bad,” John sighed. “Mostly I’m glad I’m not having to deal with it. But let me tell you, I haven’t been laid in weeks.”

“Sherlock keeping Mary busy? I mean-” Greg winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

John shook his head. “I know what you meant.” A distracting series of images flashed in his mind of the ways Sherlock could keep Mary busy that didn’t involve floral arrangements or fabric swatches. “My own wedding is keeping me from shagging my fiancee.” He rubbed his eyes. “I need a drink.” 

Greg patted his back. “My treat.”   
~

Saturday morning, John slept in, had a wank in the shower, which was distinctly unsatisfying, and made toast. Sherlock and Mary were in the living room when he came out of the kitchen, discussing dresses. 

Mary held out a pair of swatches. “The lavender or the lilac?” 

Sherlock barely glanced up. “The lilac. Going by the complexions of your wedding party, the lavender will be too light.” 

“Mmmm.” Mary chewed on the end of her pencil. “You’re right, of course.”

Plopping himself down on the couch beside Mary, John slung an arm across her shoulders and leaned in to nuzzle her ear. “Making progress?” he murmured. 

“Yes, actually.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “Will look at this list of fonts and cross out ones that you don’t like?” 

With a sigh, John drew his arm back and glared down at the piece of paper. “I never used to believe it when people said getting married killed your sex life.”

Mary squeezed his thigh, not looking up from her notebook. “By the end of this week we’ll have the invitations sent and the bridesmaids’ dresses ordered, and then it should be less crazy.” 

Sherlock, in his chair on the other side of the room, was tapping furiously at the laptop. “Are you planning on renting tuxedos for the groomsmen from the same shop? I’ve priced several other venues, but the price is comparable at each.” 

“The same shop will make pick-up easier. We’ll have to get the gents to go in for a fitting by the end of the month.” 

“Isn’t it time to choose a best man, then?” Sherlock asked, not looking up from the laptop. 

The scritch of Mary’s pencil on the page ceased abruptly. She met John’s glance. John swallowed. “That’s you, you realize,” Mary said gently. 

“It is?” Sherlock went still very briefly, then his eyes flicked to John’s face. “I am?” 

John rubbed his forehead wearily. “Course you are. Do you see me sharing every part of my life with any other mates?” 

Sherlock’s face was unreadable for a moment, and then he said, deadpan, “It is generally considered poor manners for the bride or groom to be sexually involved with the best man.” 

Mary laughed. John groaned and laid his arm across his eyes. “No one’s shagging anybody at the moment, so it doesn’t really matter does it?” 

Mary looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “It’s really driving you crazy, isn’t it?” 

“It’s been weeks! With the clinic and the wedding, and the cases, and Sherlock’s stitches…” 

Possibly it was a little odd, including their flatmate’s injury in reasons he hadn’t had sex with his fiancee in too long, but Mary just rolled her eyes. “Ten days. Barely.” 

“Right, right.” John sat back with a huff, painfully aware that he was sulking, and utterly unable to stop the pout of his mouth or the frown creasing his forehead. 

Mary regarded him closely, and then flipped her notebook shut and stood up from the couch. “All right. If you’re so desperate for it, take your clothes off, and get on your knees.” 

John blinked. “What- you mean, right now? Here?” It was the middle of the afternoon. Grey daylight streamed through the windows and puddled on the faded carpet. “Mrs Hudson could walk right in!” 

“I’m locking the door.” The deadbolt clicked. “Do you want it or not?” 

John swallowed, and pulled his jumper over his head. “I do.” 

“Right. Naked, hands and knees on the couch. And no touching your cock until I say.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Do you, ah, want me to leave?” 

“Stay,” Mary said. John breathed out, hard, focusing on undoing his buttons. “Be careful of your side though. Your stitches just came out, you could still reopen the wound.” 

His shirt fell to the floor with a rustle, and he popped the button on his trousers. After a moment’s hesitation, he pushed down his pants as well, stepping out of them and standing naked in the watery daylight. 

Mary eyed him up and down with a little smirk. “On the couch now. No touching yourself.”

Red in the face, John knelt down on the couch, feeling the cushions give under his knees. His arse was upturned to the room; his whole body tingled, the tension of vulnerability bleeding into the tautness of arousal. HIs heart was pounding, he felt flushed all over. 

Mary hummed approval. “Lovely. Now I need to finish what I was working on before you interrupted, and then I’ll take care of you. Be patient.” 

John huffed out a breath, cheeks burning. He couldn’t see anything but the nubby texture of the upholstery. The subtle movement of the air across his bare back raised hairs on the back of his neck. He could hear the scritch of her pencil and the rustle of the page as she turned it over. His face was pressed into the musty fabric, light filtering down between them, bright in the dark hollow between the cushions. He was half-hard, breathing shallowly. 

There was the soft click of a pencil being set down on wood, and a rustle as Mary got to her feet. “Sherlock, there’s a bottle of lubricant in our bedside table. Go get it for me please.” John heard Sherlock leave the room, and then the creak of the stairs. 

A warm hand landed on his back, making him jump slightly, and Mary knelt down next to him. “Is this alright?” she asked softly. “With Sherlock?” 

“S’fine,” he muttered into the cushions. 

“Mmm.” She traced her fingers down his vertebrae. “If you say stop, we’ll stop.” 

“I know.” He twisted his head to the side to look at her, After the dimness his eyes had adjusted to, her pale face and bright hair blazed. “I trust you.” 

She pressed a gentle kiss against his bare hip, hair tickling his skin. “I know.” There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and then across the carpet. Mary withdrew her hand. “Thank you Sherlock.” A bottle cap popped, and John shivered reflexively at the noise. He forced himself to breath out and relax, only to jump sharply at the chill drizzle of lubricant over his tailbone. It warmed as it dripped down between his cheeks, making him twitch at the slow, slick slide. 

He hadn’t even noticed he was hard until Mary cupped his balls in one hand, teasing with her thumb at the sensitive place where his cock was rooted. It sent a shock through him, and he muffled a groan in the couch cushions. 

All his senses were straining, skin tingling in anticipation of the next touch, ears attuned to the slightest rustles and sighs. He thought that Sherlock was in his chair, but he couldn’t be sure. Just the thought that he was watching made John feel as if he was outgrowing his skin.

When Mary slipped a finger inside him, he shouted and jerked forward, fingers digging into the cushions. As his sphincter relaxed against the intrusion, he wriggled back for more. “Give me another.” 

Her hand smacked down on his arse, hot and stinging. He gasped and shuddered. “You’ll have another when I say.” The tip of her finger crooked lightly over his prostate, just enough to tease. His cock throbbed, leaking fluid onto the upholstery. Panting, John clutched the cushions and shut his eyes.

She twisted a second finger in beside the first with a firm thrust that rocked him forward. The head of his cock brushed against the nubby fabric of the couch cushions, almost painful on the sensitive skin and he gasped. “What do you think, Sherlock?” she asked. John had almost forgotten he was watching, and the knowledge rolled over him like a hot flash, making sweat prickle at the base of his neck. 

“He enjoys that.” Sherlock’s voice was closer than John expected, right beside the couch, and distinctly hoarse; it made John shudder, clenching down around Mary’s fingers. 

“Loves it.” Slipping another finger in him, Mary stroked his back with the other hand. “Have you ever fucked someone, Sherlock?” John groaned and clutched at the cushions, shaking. There was sweat beading in the small of his back and under his arms. 

“Yes.”

John gasped and dragged in enough breath to speak. “You…have?” 

“Yes, more than once, although not in quite some time.”

Mary’s voice was silky and mild. “Want to fuck him?” 

Sherlock breathed out hard, and John squeezed his eyes shut, picturing it - those long pale fingers inside him, working him open, musician’s hands. That mouth, laying kisses down his spine. His cock- John groaned, erection throbbing untouched between his legs. He was so hard it hurt, his balls were tight and aching.

Mary crooked her fingers lightly over his prostate, making him lurch forward with a grunt. “John? Do you want him to fuck you some day? Do you like that idea?” 

John was dragging in air in ragged gasps, almost sobbing, whole body taut with the need to come. 

“Look at you, Mary muttered. “About to go off just from this. Think you could come without a hand on you? Never managed that before.”

“Highly unlikely given male anatomy and sexual response,” Sherlock said, but his breath was short. 

“Someday,” Mary murmured. “Go on love, touch yourself. Come for us.” 

Thrusting a hand between his legs, John gave himself two short tugs and came with a muffled shout, lurching forward into the cushions. Purple splotches swam in his vision, and he focused on breathing deeply. 

“That’s going to stain,” Sherlock said eventually, and the rough edge to his voice sent an aftershock shuddering through John. 

With an effort, he rolled over. Mary was on the couch beside him, her jeans unbuttoned and slid down her hips, one hand inside her knickers. Sherlock was kneeling beside the sofa with both hands clenched on his knees, knuckles white, obvious erection tenting the front of his trousers. His cheeks were flushed and he was breathing hard. 

John reached out to touch Mary’s wrist. “Let me do that.” He tugged at the waist band of her jeans until she shucked them off. Pulling her toward him on the couch he pressed his face against the wet spot on her knickers where she had soaked them through, breathing in the rich, sharp smell of her. She moaned when he opened his mouth to taste her through the fabric, curling her hands in his hair. Pulling aside the fabric, he nuzzled into her bush and licked at her clit as he slid two fingers into her.

“It’s not going to take…” she gasped. “Yes, your fingers inside me.”

John swallowed and pulled back, an idea unfurling, feeling the heat of it in his toes and the pit of his stomach. “Sherlock’s fingers are longer than mine.”

“Oh god,” she panted. “Do it, do it, Sherlock, I want you to finger me, I want to come on your fingers, fuck.” 

He heard Sherlock breath in suddenly, and forced himself to look over. Sherlock’s eyes were wide, mouth open. “Do you want?” he asked. 

Sherlock hesitated. “I don’t… I’ve never… with a woman.” 

“I’ll show you. If you like.” John’s voice was a little hoarse.

“I… alright. Show me.” 

“Oh god,” Mary groaned. She slid down on the couch, splaying her legs open, knickers stretched to the side. 

“Right. Right.” John took a deep breath. If he hadn’t come just moments before, he would have been rock hard. “I’ll do the hard part. Start with one finger. It helps to see what you’re doing. You can use your other hand to- yes, like that.” Of course Sherlock would be a quick study, spreading open her folds with his fingers and examining her with a frown of intense concentration. John felt a surge of affection for him and quashed the impulse to ruffle his hair. 

Mary was smiling. “It won’t bite.” 

“I know,” Sherlock snapped, and slid a finger into her.

“Ah!” She squirmed. 

“Alright?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes, yes,” she hissed. “Another.” 

“The angle is unexpected,” Sherlock muttered, adding another finger. 

Leaning forward, John watched Sherlock’s long, pale fingers disappear into her. “Bend your fingers upwards, gently.” Mary jolted and gasped. “Yes, just like that.” John got his thumb on her clit, rubbing small, fast circles. He could feel the movement of Sherlock’s fingers inside her. _Fuck._

One of Mary’s hands was clutching at his arm, the other was tangled in Sherlock’s hair. “I’m- I’m- fuck!” She bucked as she came, crying out and arching up off the couch. The wide-eyed expression on Sherlock’s face would have been hilarious if John hadn’t been breathless with how hot it was to watch. 

Mary sank back onto the sofa, panting, and grinned. 

“Was that…?” Sherlock was holding his sticky hand uncertainly in front of him. 

“It was perfect,” Mary sighed. 

John passed him his discarded shirt. “Here.”

Sherlock wiped his fingers, and sat back. His hair was sticking up wildly and his cheeks were flushed. The front of his trousers were noticeably tented. 

“Do you want a hand?” John asked, nodding at his crotch. 

Sherlock shifted. He had to be in discomfort, if not pain by now. “Unnecessary.”

“Are you sure? Just because it isn’t necessary doesn’t mean you can’t want something.” 

“While I appreciate your sense of chivalry, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Chivalry?” John frowned. “You think I’m offering to help you get off out of a sense of obligation?” 

“Aren’t you?”

“No.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Then why…?”

John took a deep breath. “Because I would enjoy it.” 

“You would?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed. 

“Course I would!” John huffed out an impatient breath. “Getting other people off is the best part of sex. Why do you think I fucking love eating Mary out?” 

“But you’re attracted to Mary.”

John went still. Was Sherlock really that thick? Did he have to spell it out? Mary had lifted her head, and was watching them. He swallowed, mouth dry. “I’m attracted to you, you prick.” 

“You-” Sherlock blinked at him. “Me?” 

“Yes,” John said evenly, clenching his left hand on his thigh. 

Sherlock frowned. “That is inconsistent with your previously expressed sexual preferences, and your vocal objections to assumptions about our relationship status.” 

“Well. Things change.” 

“Do they?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

“Can we at least watch you get yourself off?” Mary asked, leaning across him. “I know John wants to see you get yourself off.” John didn’t bother to conceal his reaction, the slight shudder through his whole body, the flick of his tongue over his lips. 

Sherlock hesitated, eyes darting to John, then nodded. 

“Come here.” John patted the couch cushion beside him. Hesitantly, Sherlock crawled onto the couch, hands in his lap, half-covering his erection. He seemed unlikely to do more without prompting. “Unbutton your trousers,” he ordered. He couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s slender fingers as they plucked at the button and zip. Pushing his pants and trousers down around his thighs, Sherlock wiggled out of them. His prick had gone mostly soft while they talked, but he breathed out hard when he touched it, just trailing his fingers lightly over the shaft, making it twitch and plump up. Gently, he worked the foreskin back, revealing the slick, flushed head underneath.

Fully hard, his prick curved upward slightly, long enough that Sherlock’s hand covered only a little more than half its length. John’s heart was pounding. He looked up at Sherlock’s face and realized as Sherlock cut his gaze away swiftly that he had been watching John. Breathing out hard, John felt his cock twitch with something between an aftershock and an attempt to get hard agin. 

Eyes closed, Sherlock tipped his head back, fisting himself a little more firmly, hips moving into his hand. With each stroke, the rosy head of his cock peeked out of his foreskin. A bright flush was creeping down Sherlock’s pale chest, nipples standing out stiff and pink, ribcage heaving with his breaths. 

Mary was leaning against John’s shoulder, arm around him, stroking lightly at the shell of his ear. “Isn’t he lovely?” she murmured, loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “Long and hard. Such a pretty color. I’d love to get my mouth on it. Hear the noises he makes being sucked off.” 

John felt his prick twitch and fill, aching. The image of Mary on her knees, fingering herself and sucking Sherlock, Sherlock’s hands clutching at her short hair, both of them knowing John was watching… He groaned. “Fuck.” It bloody hurt, he wasn’t twenty five anymore. There was a bead of fluid at the tip of Sherlock’s prick, and John wanted to touch, to smear it over his fingers, to taste it.

“He’s gorgeous like that. I can’t wait to see what he looks like when he comes. I can just picture how amazing he’ll look fucking you, John.” Sherlock whimpered, hand moving faster. John moaned, and dropped a hand to his own cock, too sensitive to stroke, just squeezing lightly. “You like that, don’t you?” she whispered. “Want to see you touch him, god John, I want to watch you get him off, stroke his cock.” 

John gasped and threw back his head. “Can I? Sherlock, Sherlock, can I touch you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped, and John had never heard him sound like that, utterly wrecked. 

He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s prick, warm and velvety, and stroked experimentally, marveling at the familiar motion decoupled from the accompanying sensation he was used to. At a loss for better options, he began the rhythm he used on himself when he was close, fast and short, thumb under the head. 

Sherlock arched up, making a strangled noise, hips pumping into John’s fist. John couldn’t stop looking between Sherlock’s face and the rosy head of prick. Sherlock was making breathy little grunting noises in time with his strokes, and his knuckles were white where he was clutching the couch cushions, but John was still caught totally unaware when the first spurt of hot liquid landed across his wrist. HIs own prick jerked in sympathy as he watched Sherlock’s face contort silently. He stroked him through it, hand slick with Sherlock’s come, until Sherlock shuddered and pushed him away.

“Christ,” John muttered, slumping back. 

He felt Mary slide a hand down his stomach. “Do you want-?”

“Later. I don’t think I can come again so soon, Jesus. Just… give me a minute.” 

Rolling his head to the side, he saw that Sherlock was curled against the arm of the couch, knees drawn up to his chest, dark eyes peering at them under his dark shock of hair. 

John held out his hand. “Come here.” Sherlock leaned forward hesitantly. His face was open and unsure. John felt a familiar surge of protective warmth in his chest. He cupped a hand over Sherlock’s cheek. “I just want to kiss you. Is that alright?”

The uncertainly cleared from Sherlock’s face. “Of course.” 

His mouth was warm and clumsy with eagerness. They snogged lazily, John running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He was never going to get tired of playing with those silky dark curls. 

When they finally parted, John lay back on the couch with a sigh, feeling heavy and boneless. Mary was curled against his chest, Sherlock warm on the other side. 

There was a long, untroubled silence. Then Sherlock said, “Is it irregular for me to be your best man, now that there is sexual activity involved?” 

John cracked one eye open. “Are you going to steal my wife? Run off with Mary at the last minute and leave me at the altar?” 

“Hardly,” Sherlock snorted. “As if I would ever leave you behind John.” 

“You leave me behind all the time,” John said, on a yawn. “But I appreciate the sentiment.” 

“Only because your legs are too short to keep up,” Sherlock insisted. 

“Ta, very.”

Mary stirred, and said sleepily, “If anyone is going to be running off on my wedding day, it’s going to be the two of you together on a case, and we all know it.” 

“I wouldn’t-” John protested. 

“Liar,” Mary murmured, and smiled against his neck. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t let you get far without me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has commented thus far with advice and encouragement! It's all of you who keep me writing. Consider this a treat for hanging around so long. Hope you enjoyed ;)   
> More feels to come, although we are nearing the end of this arc. Time to start thinking about HLV (thanks to everyone who brainstormed with me in the comments- I am thinking about everything you said)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER YOU GUYS.   
> But, it’s super long! So there’s that. Cheers!

By the last week of May, the entire flat had been taken over by the wedding. Experiments and medical journals had been cleared from both the kitchen and living room tables, replaced by the detritus of the upcoming wedding. Stacks of folded table cloths, empty vases for center pieces, spools of ribbon, printed name cards. 

Sherlock was updating the online registry when the front door clicked open and there was a familiar tread on the stairs. 

“Go away!” he shouted. 

Mycroft pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Mary and John not in?” 

“Don’t be tedious,” Sherlock snapped. “You knew perfectly well that John has a shift at the clinic and Mary is at the florists’. You wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t wanted to talk to me alone.” 

“And that’s not allowed?” 

“I’m busy.” 

“Ah.” Mycroft poked at a folded serviette with his umbrella. “Yes. I was certain the Islington asphyxiations would hold your attention.” 

“I had to attend a meeting with the caterers.”

Mycroft frowned at the hearth. After a moment, he said, “You know that playing along with their little world won’t stop them from leaving you?”

Sherlock’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. “I don’t see how any part of that statement is relevant.” 

“Don’t play dim Sherlock, it insults both of us.” 

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock shoved the laptop away, knocking a stack of invitations off the table. “Spare me your commentary.” 

“They’re getting married Sherlock. That changes things.” 

“How would you know?” Sherlock snarled. 

“I’m worried about you.” 

“So you’ve said,” Sherlock growled. 

“Sherlock-” Mycroft tucked his chin, looking at the floor. “You know how it ends. Your… getting involved.” 

“You know, I am very busy, if you would be so kind-”

“You’ve scrolled through the same spreadsheet three times in the last ninety seconds,” Mycroft interrupted. “I am merely attempting to provide a sense of perspective.”

“I know exactly what you’re attempting to do,” Sherlock fumed. “You are once again meddling in something you don’t understand, which should come as no surprise, given the tenor of our history.” 

“Given the _tenor_ of our history, I am justifiably concerned by your involvement with John and Mary.” 

“Past events have no relevance to the current situation,” Sherlock spat. 

His brother was silent for a long moment, regarding him blankly. Then he said, “That would be more convincing if you believed it yourself.” 

The stairs creaked. “Yoo hoo!” Mrs Hudson called. “Is this a good time, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock leapt to his feet. “A perfect, excellent time Mrs Hudson! Come in.” Mycroft sighed.

Her grey head poked around the door. “Oh! Hello Mycroft dear. You’ve come at just the right time, I’ve a batch of gingerbread about to come out of the oven.” 

Mycroft’s face pinched just a little. “I’m afraid I have to decline your kind offer, Mrs Hudson, although it pains me terribly. Pressing issues of state. You know how it is.” He gave a false little twitch of a smile. 

“Always running off,” Mrs Hudson clucked. “Next time then. I’ve perfected my hazelnut shortbread since we last had tea. Will we see you at the wedding?” 

“Perhaps.” He buttoned his jacket, and gave a polite nod. “Take care, Sherlock.” Sherlock scowled at the hearth. The umbrella tapped on the stairs. 

John’s chair creaked as Mrs Hudson lowered herself into it. “How are you holding up?” she asked. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock said sullenly.

“Been a busy time, hasn’t it? The end of an era.” 

“Hardly. Two people who are already living together will attend church, take a short vacation and go on living together. I fail to see how this signifies any change at all.” 

“Oh Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson shook her head. “When I was married, my best friend and I swore up and down that nothing would change between us. But …. Of course, then we were in Florida and busy with the cartel, and we just fell out of touch. I seem to recall that she left the wedding early. I mean, who does that? How sad.” 

“Don’t you have something to do?” Sherlock said icily, looming over her.

“Oh I suppose,” she sighed, pushing herself to her feet. “I just thought you might be lonely…” 

“Something to do, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock barked. She flinched and scurried for the door.   
~

Mrs Hudson was coming down the stairs in her apron as Mary arrived home. She shook her head. “Sherlock’s in a bit of a mood. I hope you had a nice day, dear.” 

“I did, thanks.” Mary took the stairs two at a time and shouldered the door of the flat open, unwinding her scarf. 

“I’m home!” The sitting room was empty. She poked her head into the kitchen. “What are you up to?” Sherlock was standing over the table, a beaker gripped in a pair of tongs, and didn’t respond. The neat stacks of RSVP cards had been pushed off, creamy squares scattered across the floor. “I see. I’m going to take a shower before John gets home.” 

Crossing the kitchen she headed down the hall. She had just reached the door to the loo when there was a crash behind her, the bright sound of shattering glass. “Sherlock?” 

The beaker was broken on the linoleum, a clear, viscous liquid oozing across the tiles. Sherlock was snarling to himself, reaching for one of the good hand towels to swipe up what had splattered over his petri dishes on the table. The lines on his face were harsh and furious, his mouth a vicious slash.

“Sherlock?” she repeated. 

He looked up and his face morphed into the most forced grimace of a smile she had ever seen. “My hand slipped. Terribly clumsy of me.” 

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. 

“Yes, yes. Nothing to worry about, I’ll clean this right up.”

Mary took a breath, hesitated, and let it out. “Sherlock- Perhaps you and John should go out for the evening. Take one of those cases Greg has been pestering you about. Might do you good.” 

“You and John had plans to go for dinner.” 

“Yes, well, I’m knackered. It was a bloody long day. Think about it, all right?” He said nothing, and after a moment Mary sighed, and shut the bathroom door behind her.   
~

“Swan or Sydney Opera House?” 

Mary blinked. “Where’d you learn to do that?” 

“I once disproved a man’s alibi by demonstrating the proper construction of -“

“Sherlock. I can tell when you’re fibbing. We talked about this.” 

He scowled. “Youtube.” 

“Opera House please.” Putting down the papers she was perusing, Mary got to her feet and kicked John’s chair on the way to the kitchen. 

“Oh. Uh. Been ages since breakfast, I ought to make something to eat.” John pushed himself up. “You want anything Sherlock?” 

“No.” 

“Right.” He ducked into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” 

“You need to do something about Sherlock.”

“What?” 

“John, he’s Youtubing serviettes.” 

“He’s thorough.” 

“He’s terrified.” 

John wrinkled his brow. “Course he’s not. Why would he be scared that we’re getting married? Nothing’s going to change.”

“He doesn’t know that! This is Sherlock- what does he know about marriage? You need to prove to him that things won’t change

“What do you want me to do, suck him off?” 

“As much as I would enjoy that, it’s hardly going to reassure him is it?” she bit out. “I told you to find him a case!”

“I’m trying! He’s not interested.” 

She gave him a pitying look. “You’re John Watson. The only thing in the world that interests Sherlock Holmes more than drugs and murder.” THere was a pause. “Well? Go on!” 

“Right, alright!” He stumbled a little as she shoved him toward the living room. 

The coffee table and the floor were covered in neat cloth triangles. Sherlock looked up. “This just… sort of happened.”

“Uh, right. Look, Sherlock. Mate.” John winced. “I’ve sampled a dozen different perfumes, tasted cakes until I felt sick, looked at flowers that I frankly can’t tell apart, and I think the bridesmaids are fine in purple.” 

“Lilac.”

“Lilac. I’m faking opinions about things I don’t understand, and I need to get out of here.” 

“Have you called Gavin? I believe a trip to the pub customarily relives stress.” 

“I don’t want to call Greg. I want to go out with my best friend.” Sherlock looked blank. “That’s you.” 

“Me?” 

“Mmm, yes. We discussed this, remember?” 

Sherlock blinked rapidly. “We’re still adjusting the seating at the reception.” 

“Mary can finish that. Look, Sherlock. I’m going crazy. Please, just pick one. For me?” 

Sherlock hesitated, and then nodded decisively, expression firming with determination. “Alright. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll get you out of here.” John felt a guilty lurch in his stomach. Taking the phone from John’s hand Sherlock flicked through the emails on the screen. “No. No. Oh. Dear Mr Holmes… a private in Her Majesty’s Household Guard… a stalker. Mmmm. Uniform fetishist? All good girls like a soldier.” 

John tapped his fingers on the desk. “It’s sailor. Let’s go investigate… please?”

“Forty enlisted men,” Sherlock murmured. “This particular grenadier. Curious.” 

“Yes?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock got to his feet, straightening his jacket. 

Mary stepped out of the kitchen. “You boys off?” 

“Yes, just, uh, need to get some… need to duck out for a bit. Is my coat…?”

“In the kitchen.” 

“Right.” John ducked into the other room. Sherlock shrugged on his coat and Mary stepped close, smoothing his lapels. “Thanks for doing this,” she murmured. “He needs to get out sometimes.” 

“I’m just going to… run him a bit.” 

“I know. Take your time. Sherlock- he needs you.” 

“Ready to go?” John called. 

Sherlock looked away over her head. “Best be off.” 

“Yes.” She squeezed his arm. “Be safe.”   
~

The wedding was ten days away. John told himself that it was ridiculous to be apprehensive. He had invaded Afghanistan, for God’s sake. He had experienced nauseous terror and the simmering tension of constant danger. A bloody wedding should not be able to send a flutter of nervous through his stomach every time he thought about it. 

The clinic was busy as ever, and John was working double shifts to make up for taking two weeks off for the honeymoon. He’d just gotten home and settled down in his armchair with the paper and a cup of tea when Sherlock swept into the room in his dressing gown. “Stand up.” 

“Sorry?”

“Get up.” Opening the laptop, Sherlock tapped at the keys. “We’re dancing.” 

“I don’t dance.” John put down his cup. It was pouring out, and he was damp and tired.

“Yes, that is the salient point. Well done, John.” Tinny strains of a waltz emanated from the laptop’s little speakers. “Stand up.” 

Shaking his head, John wrinkled his nose. 

“You’re the one who has expressed desire for a traditional wedding. Typically, the first dance at the reception is between the bride and the groom.” 

John rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I was planning to just… muddle through.” 

Sherlock looked annoyed. “Which is why I am selflessly volunteering my time to save you from self-inflicted humiliation.” 

“Yeah, insult me, that always works.” John hauled himself to his feet. “Alright. I need to make dinner before Mary gets home. You have an hour to teach me to waltz.” 

“Not ideal, but it will have to suffice. Thankfully, Mary is a competent dancer.” He stepped close to John, and John was once again struck by his height. “I am the woman in this scenario, obviously. Do you know where your hands go?” 

Tentatively, John put a hand on Sherlock’s hip and held the other one up. 

“On the small of my back, not my hip. That’s better.” Sherlock’s long, pale hand folded into his. “Now, can you hear the three count of the music? _One_ two three, _one_ two three.” 

John cocked his head. “Ye-es.”

“Not reassuring. Count them for me.” 

“Uh.” Sherlock was very warm and very close. John forced himself to focus on the music. “One… wait. One two three, one two three.” 

“Passable. Now move your feet. Don’t step, just pick them up. _One_ two three, _one_ two three. On the second count of one you should be on the opposite foot as the previous measure.” John frowned. “Never mind, you’re doing fine, don’t try to think about it, you clearly don’t have capacity to do both at once. Yes, see you do it fine when you’re occupied being annoyed at me.” 

Scowling, John reflected that it was a symptom of how long he had been dealing with Sherlock that the backhanded compliment was as satisfying as genuine praise. Being insulted should not send a thread of warmth through him. 

“Now, on the one count, step forward. Keep doing the two-three. And on the next count, step with the other foot. _Step_ two three, _step_ two three.” They lurched across the worn carpet, Sherlock’s dressing gown flapping against their legs. “Alternate feet, yes, like that. Mind the table. Good. This is a traveling waltz- you control the direction by stepping the way you want to go. Very basic concept, even toddlers master it.” 

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John muttered, and lost count of the beat. “Dammit.” 

Sherlock sighed. “Try again. _One_ two three…” 

The music looped, starting over, and John concentrated on the count. Gradually the rhythm became automatic, and he felt less like a lumbering plow horse. They were able to make a circuit of the room without tripping over anything or stepping on each other, and John’s attention was more free to wander. He became aware of the way their legs brushed with each step, the suggestive proximity of their torsos. There was an eroticism to simultaneous movement, a sense of connection that reminded John of really spectacular sex. His eyes were at the level of Sherlock’s mouth. He swallowed. 

They had shuffled to a halt, standing still in the center of the room. 

“Focus, John,” Sherlock rumbled. The pitch of his voice made John’s cock twitch. He was already half hard.

He cleared his throat. “I think I’ve got it.”

“Yes.” Sherlock sounded vague, distracted. He was looking slightly too low to meet John’s eyes. 

John could hear his own heart pounding. He tilted his head back. 

“Are you… do you want… me to…?”

“Yes,” John whispered.

Cupping the back of his head, Sherlock bent and pressed his lips to John’s. It was dry, a bit clumsy. Threading his fingers through Sherlock’s silky curls, John eased his mouth open, keeping the kiss shallow, teasing at Sherlock’s lips with flickers of his tongue. Leaning back to snog someone was unexpected- it made John feel unbalanced, almost dizzy, and he clung to Sherlock’s shoulders. One of Sherlock’s hands slid to the small of his back, pressing their bodies together, so that the wild flutter of their hearts reverberated between them. 

John slipped a hand under Sherlock’s dressing gown, where there was only a thin layer of cotton separating his fingers from the hot, tender skin over Sherlock’s ribs. Shivering, John cupped Sherlock’s jaw, easing his mouth open to kiss him deeper, slower. Moaning, Sherlock clutched the back of his head, holding him in place. His fingers dug into John’s skull, his tongue was slick and eager in John’s mouth. Bucking up against him, John pressed his erection against Sherlock’s thigh, felt Sherlock’s fingers spasm in response. Sherlock was hard too- John was lightheaded with the heat of that thought. 

So much for not being gay. Without Mary, there was no pretending it wasn’t Sherlock he was getting off on- not fantasies of a threesome, not Mary’s dirty talk in his ear, not the thrill of being watched. Just Sherlock- his ribs under John’s fingers, heart thundering, his erection pressed against John’s stomach. Sherlock, who was brilliant and beautiful and so sharp he sliced through the world without noticing who was bleeding, Sherlock, who looked bewildered at the suggestion the he was loved. 

Shuddering, John buried his face in the collar of Sherlock’s dressing gown. The cotton was warm and nubby, and the hollow of his throat smelled overwhelmingly of Sherlock’s body- the indelibly human scent that was often covered by the smell of formaldehyde or shampoo. He smelled like home. 

He felt Sherlock’s fingers gentle in his hair. His voice was soft and hoarse when he spoke. “Why do you hide your face?” 

John blinked and lifted his head. “It’s just… habit, I suppose.” He struggled to formulate coherent thoughts, brain sluggish while his blood was otherwise occupied. “It feels… safe.” 

“I want to watch you. Your face.” 

“Right, alright.” Clutching Sherlock’s arms, making an effort to stay upright and not collapse against Sherlock’s chest again, John rutted against Sherlock’s thigh again, shuddering at the friction. His eyes fell closed. 

“Open your eyes.” 

An unexpected shiver ran through John. “Christ.” 

“Please?”

He forced his eyes open. Sherlock was watching him intently from a few inches away. His eyes were arresting as always; an indeterminate shade of marine- pale blue flecked with green. “I want to see you,” Sherlock whispered.

It felt ridiculous- John could tell his cheeks were burning, and he kept biting his lip. The intensity of their eye contact distracted from the friction and heat of Sherlock’s body. Physical sensations were secondary to the pulse of connection, more intimate than dancing. 

Sherlock’s fingers dug into his hips, and John shuddered, eyes fluttering closed. “Look at me,” Sherlock whispered. Panting, he opened his eyes. 

He couldn’t remember a time when he had held a partner’s gaze for so long while getting off together. It made him feel sunburnt all over- raw and hot and tingling. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed, pupils wide. Every jolt of their hips together showed on Sherlock’s face- in flickers of his eyes, in audible gasps shaped by his lips. Suddenly John regretted ever missing a moment of this- the privilege of witnessing Sherlock’s rare, precious face in the throes of intimacy. 

“Fuck.” John yanked at his belt, unbuttoning his trousers, shoving them down just enough to free his prick, stroking himself roughly, feeling the cotton of Sherlock pajama bottoms brushing the head of his cock, rough and teasing. He pushed up his sweater until Sherlock’s erection was pressed against his bare stomach, hot through the thin fabric. He could feel the damp spot at the tip, and it made him groan, his own prick throbbing. The idea that Sherlock was that turned on- by _him_ \- that he was leaking already- John had to squeeze himself hard to keep from coming. “Sherlock,” he gasped. 

Sherlock was panting, mouth open, lips red and wet, cheeks flushed. His eyes hadn’t left John’s face. “John.” 

“Tell me- do you want? Are you going to-?” Sherlock jerked and gasped, hand clutching at John. “Do it,” John whispered. Dirty talk was Mary’s strength, not his, but it was so hot to watch Sherlock tremble and moan at his words, it made John’s chest ache and his cock jump. “Sherlock, do it, I want to watch, watch you come for me.” 

Sherlock’s face twisted. “I’m- John, I’m-” He gasped and stiffened, fingers convulsing in John’s jumper, and a moment later John felt Sherlock’s prick jerk against his stomach, spreading warm wetness between them. The sound he made, soft and wounded, sent a spike of heat straight to John’s gut. Stroking himself hard John shuddered and collapsed against Sherlock’s chest as he came too. Breathing out hard, he closed his eyes, listening to the thumping of Sherlock’s heart until his limbs felt less like rubber. 

Finally, John opened his eyes and stepped back- and tripped over the coffee table. He went down hard, banging his knee. “Fuck!” Half-sitting on the floor, pants still open, he looked up at Sherlock’s face- comically surprised, hair standing up everywhere- and burst out laughing. 

Sherlock blinked, and then snorted. “I see we used your stock of coordination for the day.” 

“Shut up.” John grabbed his ankle and yanked. Sherlock flailed and toppled down beside him. Burying a hand in Sherlock’s soft curls, John pulled his head close to kiss him, sloppy and off center, both of them smiling, teeth bumping. Making a soft noise, Sherlock pulled John on top of him, chest to chest, curling a hand around his neck.

“Are you boys alright?” Mrs Hudson called. 

They jolted apart, sitting up. “Fuck!” 

The stairs creaked. Cursing, John fumbled to button his trousers. The door was pushed open and Mrs Hudson peered in. “I heard a crash.” 

Sherlock snatched his dressing gown closed to cover the wet spot on the front of his pajama bottoms, but there was no disguising that they were both rumpled and flushed, clearly having been rolling on the floor together. It was immediately apparent from Mrs Hudson’s expression that it was a compromising scene.“Oh! Boys!” 

John yanked the front of his shirt down. “Mrs. Hudson-”

A wave of anger overcame the surprise on her face. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! And with the wedding only a week away!” She twisted her hands, mouth pinched down unhappily. “God knows I only want what’s best for you two, and I know it’s been hard for both of you, but Mary doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. On the sitting room floor for god’s sake. John, I expected better of you.” John’s face felt as if it would melt with the heat of embarrassment. Mrs. Hudson eyed each of them fiercely. “Now, I’m going to go back downstairs and we shall say no more about this, but I hope you will think carefully in the future.” 

With a last stern glance, she turned on her heel, closing the door heavily behind her. “Oh dear,” she murmured to herself. “Poor boys.” Shaking her head, she started down the stairs, every other step stiff with the tight ache in her hip. 

As she reached the bottom, the front door opened in a gust of rain and damp chill, and Mary stepped in, red coat flapping around her in the wind. “Hallo, Mrs Hudson,”

“Oh, Mary!” Mrs. Hudson’s hand flew to her mouth. 

Shutting the front door, she blew out a breath. “ _Ouff!_ What a storm. I hope the weather clears up in time for the wedding.” 

Mrs. Hudson’s hands fluttered at her sides. “Why don’t you stop in for a cup of tea, warm you up a bit. It looks awful out.” 

Mary paused and looked more closely at her. “That sounds lovely. Let me go take off my coat and get out of these wet shoes. I’ll be down in a jif.” 

“Oh, no! No need to go upstairs. I haven’t much time, I’m going out later. Why don’t you come down with me now?” 

“I… alright, yes, of course.” Mary followed her into her flat, shrugging off her coat. 

“Do have a seat, love.” Bustling around the small kitchen, Mrs Hudson put the kettle on and pulled out a box of biscuits. “How was the clinic?” 

“The usual. There’s a nasty flu going around, keeps us busy.” 

“That’s nice.” The china cups clinked as Mrs Hudson set them on the counter. “I’ve got earl grey and darjeeling.” 

“ Early grey please. Is something wrong, Mrs Hudson?” 

“No. No. Nothing’s wrong.” 

“Did the boys get into trouble while I was gone?” 

The lid of the sugar bowl chimed as Mrs. Hudson’s hand jerked. Mary raised her eyebrows. “The building’s still standing. John and Sherlock can’t have done anything too horrible.”

Mrs Hudson hesitated. “You know I’m so happy to have you all living here- Sherlock was just horrid when he got back and John had moved out. Sherlock loves John more than either of them were prepared for, I think.” The kettle whistled, and she poured two cups. “Sugar?” 

“Please.” 

The spoon scraped the bottom of the cup as Mrs Hudson stirred in the sugar. “Lord knows that from the beginning I was hoping those boys would sort themselves out.” She passed a cup to Mary and studied her own intently. “Both of them trampling all over each other’s hearts without even noticing.” 

Mary huffed a soft breath of laughter, curling her cold fingers around her cup. “That’s right.” 

Mrs Hudson cast a quick, anxious glance at her. “It must be… difficult. To- well, it was always clear how much they meant to each other, before. And living with both of them… I imagine it would be hard to… come between that.”

“Ah.” Mary blew on her tea. “John and Sherlock love each other very much,” she said slowly. “And they still have a lot to sort out. They’re working on it, bit by bit. I don’t mind. We sort things out all three of us, and between each of us. It’s working. That’s the important part.” 

“My husband, rest his soul, tried sorting himself out with Lula and Candice and Arnold, and those were just the ones I knew about,” Mrs Hudson said crisply. “And that was before the drugs.” 

Mary shrugged. “I knew as soon as Sherlock turned up that I was engaged to a man who was in love with someone else.” She smiled into her teacup. “It would bother me if he wasn’t in love with me as well.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, steam curling up from their cups. “It’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson said finally. 

Mary sipped her tea. “I suppose. I don’t object to a bit of unusual.” 

“I suppose not when you’ve decided you want to live with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes.” Mary grinned. “I really feel quite at home.” She drained her teacup. “I ought to go- it’s been a hell of a day.”

“Any time dear.” Mrs Hudson got to her feet, taking the cups to the sink. “Just…I’d hate to see any of you hurt. If you’re not sure… well, better to change your mind now than later.”

Mary paused in the doorway, turned back, and looked away again. “Have a good evening Mrs Hudson. Thanks for the tea.”   
~

Faint strains of violin drifted into the bathroom. Mary finished the last drag of the eyeliner pencil and blinked quickly at the mirror. Dropping the pencil into her bag, she grabbed her heels from the floor and padded barefoot out into the kitchen. She paused in the doorway, standing in shadow. Sherlock was standing at the window, framed in light. The melody was a waltz, delicate, a little sad. 

“That’s lovely.” 

The music stopped with a screech. “How much did you hear?” he demanded. 

“Just a little. Why, is it a secret?” 

He scowled. “It’s not finished.” 

“You’re composing?” 

Putting the fiddle down gently, Sherlock scribbled a note on a sheet of paper, folded it, and threw himself down in his armchair.

Mary perched on the back of the chair, looking down at him. “Looking forward to tonight?” 

He glanced up at her, eyes swift and dismissive. “You’re going to a strip show,” he sniffed. “Terribly unoriginal.” 

“Cabaret, actually. And it’s my hen night. I’ll do what I like. How do I look?” 

His eyes flickered over her, lingering a little on the low cut of her blouse, skin and collar bones. 

She smiled. “Do you ever get curious? About sex with women?” 

“… Generally I don’t give it much thought.” 

She hummed. “But lately hasn’t been generally, has it? You know, I’d be more than happy to show you.” 

“Would you… enjoy that? With me?” 

Her mouth curled up in a grin. “Oh, believe me, I would.” His brow furrowed a little. “And I know John would enjoy watching. He would be so turned on, seeing us together.” Her voice dropped. “Sometime, we’ll surprise him. Make him watch. Maybe even tie his hands so he can’t touch himself until we’re finished.” Sherlock squirmed, and she chuckled. “I’ve got to get going. John’ll be down in a tick, he’s still changing out of his scrubs.” She ran a hand through his hair. “You boys won’t get in too much trouble, will you?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, offended. “Of course not. I’ve carefully calculated optimum alcohol intake for the evening.” 

“Yes, Molly told me.” Twisting one of his curls around her finger, Mary sighed. “It’s just another day, Sherlock. There’s no need to be nervous.” 

“I’m not nervous,” he snapped. His hands were white, gripping the leather arms of the chair. 

“Nothing’s going to change,” she said softly. 

He said nothing, and after a moment Mary sighed, pressed a kiss to the top of her head and rose. “I’ve got to get going. Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”   
~

A hard edge was driving into John’s kidney. A stair. They were lying on the stairs. His nose was pressed into Sherlock’s hair, and the soft scent of his shampoo filled his consciousness. Sherlock’s body was warm against his side, and everything else was pleasantly hazy. 

“D’you ‘ave a reputation, John?” Sherlock slurred. 

“A wha?” 

“Repu-tation. I’ve a rep… putation.”

“No, ‘ve not.” Sherlock’s hair was in his mouth.

“Crime. S’thing with… crime. I don’t remember…” 

“Remember what?” John mumbled. 

“WHat I’m for. What am I for, John?” 

“Dunno.” 

“Then why… why…” He trailed off, voice thin and pathetic. 

John patted him clumsily. “S’alright.” 

“S’not alright.” Sherlock tipped his head back, and their faces were suddenly very close together, too close to focus. THeir noses brushed. Sherlock’s breath smelled of alcohol. “What’ll I do, John?” 

“Shhh.” Nuzzling forward, John bumped their mouths together, off-center and awkward. Sherlock made a disgruntled noise, but his hand came up to clutch at John’s shoulder. 

A door slammed nearby. “You two are back early. Oh! Really, boys.” Who was that? Mrs. Hudson. It registered sluggishly with John that she sounded angry. 

Pulling away from Sherlock, John blinked and struggled to focus. There was a purple nimbus around the hall light. Mrs Hudson’s face was in shadow, swimming a little. Her voice was sharp, jarring, as she loomed over them. “You know, Mary says you all have yourselves worked out, and lord knows it’s none of my business, but whatever it is, I’ll not have it on my front stairs. Shoo, both of you! Go on!”

Staggering to his feet, John got an arm under Sherlock’s shoulders and heaved him up. “Wha-?” Sherlock overbalanced and slumped against the banister. Stumbling and bumping into walls, they made it to the upstairs flat. 

“Water,” John mumbled, lurching toward the kitchen. He fumbled two glasses down from a cabinet. Filling them at the tap, he drained one and refilled it, and then, walking carefully, carried them both into the living room, only sloshing a little onto the carpet. 

Sherlock had curled up on the end of the couch. He looked away when John held out the glass. “Don’t want it.” 

“Jus’ drink it. Be glad in th’morning.”

Scowling, Sherlock took the glass. “She thinks we’re cheating.”

“She?” John dropped into his own chair, remembering too late he was holding a full glass. Water slopped onto his trousers. “Oh damn.” 

“M’s Hudson. Thinks we’re cheating. On Mary.”

Daubing at his trouser leg with the sleeve of his jumper, it took a moment for that to register with John. He blinked slowly. “We’re not. Are we?”

“Dunno. I’m not good at… things?” 

“Things?” 

Sherlock gestured with the glass, sloshing water onto the couch. “People things.” 

“‘M good at people things?” 

“You are.” Sherlock nodded solemnly. “I’m only good at… dead people things. Bad at people things.” 

John sipped his water. “Yeah, bit crap.”

Stretching out on the couch, Sherlock stared at the ceiling. “I ruin people things.” 

John’s brow wrinkled, considering. “Naw,” he decided finally. 

“S’true. Ruin ‘em. You’ve gotta… gotta look after people things. So I don’t ruin it.” He rolled onto his side on the couch, looking directly at John. “Don’t let me ruin it, John. John. John, don’t let me.”

“I won’t I won’t! It’ll be ok, Sh’lock. Christ. ‘M too drunk for this.” Rubbing his eyes, John lurched to his feet. “Gonna sleep it off. Y’should… rest too.” Sherlock watched him as he staggered toward the stairs, but John didn’t look back.  
~

John woke up with a dull, pulsing headache and a sour taste in his parched mouth. With a groan he rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. Those last two- three?- shots had been a bad idea. When he finally dragged himself out of bed and downstairs, the flat was quiet. Deeply grateful, he made a cup of coffee and sank down in his chair. 

Sherlock shuffled out of his room half an hour later. There were circles under his eyes, and his hair was sticking up wildly. 

“How are you feeling?” John asked. 

“Headache, slight nausea. I am accustomed to the after-effects of intoxication.” Lowering himself onto the couch, Sherlock blinked slowly. “Tea?” 

“Get it yourself.” 

Sherlock made a grumpy noise and didn’t move. “Rehearsal tomorrow.” 

“Mmm.” 

“All day tomorrow we’ll be setting up at the venue.” 

“Mmm.” John drained his tea. 

“This is probably the last chance you’ll have to practice dancing.” 

“Mmm?” 

“Dancing, John,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Keep up.” 

John rubbed his forehead. “Not right now, Sherlock. Anyway, I think I’ve got it down pretty well.”

“Ah. Right. Well.” Looking away, Sherlock picked up a stack of papers apparently at random, and shuffled through them. “No dancing.” 

“Sherlock, it’s not-“ 

There was a knock at the door. Sherlock cocked his head. “Client.” 

“Come in,” John called.

A young woman was at the door, clutching her purse nervously. “Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock gestured impatiently. 

She shifted. “I came by last night, but your landlady said you were busy. I have a case- it’s about a man. ”

“Not interested,” Sherlock sniffed. 

John frowned, trying to sort fuzzy memories of the night before. They’d been on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson had sent them upstairs, and told this girl- oh lord. 

“No, listen,” the woman insisted. “I think I went on a date with a ghost!” 

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. “Preposterous. Delusional. Waste of time.”

There were footsteps on the stairs, and Mary pushed open the door. “Morning! Oh, hallo.” Shrugging off her coat she went over to kiss John. “How was your night? I half expected to be picking up the two of you from the lock-up this morning.”

“It was alright.” John rubbed his forehead. “Drank too much, didn’t even stay out that late.” He snorted. “We must be getting old.” 

“I see you managed to find a client. Can’t have been a total wash.” Mary glanced at the woman. “What’s the case?” 

Sherlock waved a hand. “She was just leaving.” 

“Did you even hear her out?” 

The woman, sensing an opening, said quickly. “I met this lovely man the other night, we really hit it off, talked for ages, but then I never heard back from him when he said he’d call.” Sherlock made a derisive noise in his throat and began to speak, but she plowed on. “But here’s the thing! When I went back to his flat, his landlord said he’d been dead two weeks of a heart attack! And I found-” she fumbled in her bag and withdrew a folded handful of papers. “There’s this forum like, online, where there are other girls who have dated men from the spirit world!” 

“See? Ludicrous.” 

“Oh, I don’t know Sherlock. maybe you should look into it. You haven’t taken a case since the one with the guardsman- and I know that one was frustrating.

“There’s things to do here.” 

Mary shrugged. “We’ve mostly finished what needs to be done before the rehearsal. John needs to pack for the honeymoon.” She cast him a stern glance. 

Sherlock scowled. “I still don’t see why that’s necessary. You could take time off work right here in London. I understand the custom is to stay in and have lots of sex. No reason to go any place special for that.”

“It’s just a vacation Sherlock. Change of scenery, change of routine.” 

Standing abruptly, Sherlock reached for his coat. “In fact, I will investigate your ghost date. Clearly I am not needed here.” 

He stalked out the door, the woman glancing around nervously before hurrying after him. Mary sighed as the front door slammed downstairs. “He’s not been himself lately, has he?” 

John frowned in the direction of the door. “He’s not been himself for months. Maybe since he came back.” His left fist clenched on the arm of his chair. “I can’t tell what’s _himself_ anymore with Sherlock.” 

“Are you worried about him?” 

John grimaced. “I always worry about him.”

Mary ran her fingers through his hair. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was whining about being almost done with this chapter but still having gaps to fill in, and my roommate goes, “Just post it. That doesn’t stop Moffat.” :) Love her. 
> 
> Also, we never see Mycroft and Mrs Hudson interact in canon, but you can’t tell me that at some point Mycroft didn’t come to interrogate his little brother’s new landlady, and Mrs Hudson promptly fed him cake and did not take his bull shit. ETERNAL HEAD CANON.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a wedding, and some wedding feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently there has been some reoccurring Mary drama on tumblr over the last few days. If you couldn't already tell, I want to reiterate that this will continue to be a Mary-friendly story, even through HLV. That doesn't necessarily mean forgiving or excusing her actions, but it means treating her as human. Characters can be dark, and still sympathetic.

The first grey light crept across the worn carpet of 221B, and found Sherlock hunched over his laptop, hair on end, shirt rumbled. The ghostly date turned out to be more promising than immediately obvious, and Sherlock had spent an invigorating but ultimately frustrating four days (six days? They blurred together) chasing down the Mayfly Man’s victims on online forums. The answer was _there_ , if he could only see it clearly, every indication of connected events without a hint of what the connection actually _was_. It was infuriating. 

He rubbed his forehead. The blue glow of the screen made his eyes ache. 

Something was happening today. Something important. Yesterday, John had been angry because Sherlock missed something- a dinner. The rehearsal dinner. The _rehearsal_ \- no wonder John had left a series of agitated texts while Sherlock had been investigating the flat of the apparently dead boyfriend. Last night had been the rehearsal, which meant _today…_

Speech, he had to write a speech. Sherlock jolted to his feet and paced to the kitchen. His hands shook as he put the kettle on- exhaustion, nerves, nicotine craving- it was all the same shallow flutter in his stomach. Speech about John. John, John, John. Things about John: the nubby texture of his jumpers, the set of his shoulders under pressure, his honest laughter, his steady grip on the gun, the wrinkles around his eyes, the flushed and tender head of his erection. 

Probably not suitable. 

Flipping the laptop open, back in the living room, Sherlock’s fingers flew over the keys. _Best man how to._ The search results were all the same, banal, unspecific. _Be concise, be witty. Tell a story, make them laugh. Compliment the couple, discuss their virtues._ Their virtues, it was ridiculous. As if anyone who had ever met John needed to be reminded of his virtues. _Practice in advance. Be yourself._ Well, that was right out. 

The kettle whistled, shrill and grating. Sherlock swore and shoved the laptop away, How was he supposed to tell John in five minutes or less what he had meant to Sherlock? Didn’t John know already? Surely he wasn’t that thick- then what was the point? To entertain the imbeciles at the wedding? As if they deserved a glimpse into the fragile, baffling, precious companionship he and John shared. 

Hot water splashed on the counter as he filled a cup. Best to write something quick and have it over with, then. The teabag leached inky swirls, vivid against the white china. People were so fond of their useless, empty customs. Why would he want to talk about John to a room full of strangers? What role did their voyeurism play in a treatise of affection? 

For that matter, why hold a public wedding at all, when Mycroft could have had the papers signed and filed   
within ten hours of the proposal? The tea scalded Sherlock’s tongue. From the beginning he had felt the extravagance of a wedding was unnecessary. After all, the marriage was no more real or weighty for being witnessed…. 

He put the cup down with a chink. Of course he’d missed it- it was irrational, sentimental. A witnessed statement carried weight in a church just as in a court of law. The more witnesses, the more irrefutable the fact (barring occasions, predominantly traumatic, where witness accounts varied widely and confused prosecution). 

Perhaps the speech was important after all, or could be made so. Sherlock pulled out his phone. 

_To DI Lestrade_  
 _Need help. Urgent. Come at once. -SH_  
~

The church was bustling like a hive of something less interesting than bees. People with armfuls of flowers were scuttling to and fro, the air heavy with their pollen and perfume. A man was setting out candles while an elderly women followed him, rearranging them all. Two young girls were sitting in the hall outside the chapel folding programs (“Why do we need programs?” Sherlock had asked. “There’s only one event. Unless you are opening with a tattooed lady and dancing bear.”) 

A room off the old vestry had been converted into a dressing room for the women. It was hot and crowded inside, smelling strongly of perfume and hairspray. Bridesmaids were crowded around the three mirors, hair dressed, hair in curlers, trailing ribbons and lilac satin, chattering to one another. Mary was perched on a stool in the center of the room, wearing her knickers and a bra, with two women fussing around her eyes with brushes and pens of cosmetics. One of them yelped when she spotted Sherlock. “Ladies only!” 

Behind Sherlock, the door banged open. “The caterer arrived,” someone called. “They’ve set up in the kitchen. And the florist wants to know if you want the carnations with the lilies or separate.” 

“Find Janine, she knows about the flowers,” Mary said, holding still for the eyeliner. “Don’t worry Carla, It’s just Sherlock.” Mary waved him closer. “Don’t you look dashing.” Her smile was a little tired, but it quirked up wickedly as she eyed him up and down. 

“Sit still,” the other woman scolded, tilting her head toward the light. 

The door flew open again. Mrs Hudson poked her head in. “Love, I can’t find the seating chart for the reception.” 

“Oh damn,” Mary swore. Carla huffed as she pulled away from the pencil again. “Didn’t I leave it with the name cards?” She made to get up, and was pushed back the bridesmaids. “Look in the bag with the serviettes?” 

“I can’t find my heels!” Someone exclaimed. 

Sherlock pulled out his phone. “I have an electronic copy of the seating chart, Mrs Hudson.” 

“Oh good.” Mrs Hudson clasped her hands. “You’d best send it to Janine. You know how I am about technology.” 

“Mm. Number?” 

“I have it here somewhere.” Fumbling in her jacket pocket, she pulled out a scrap of paper. Sherlock entered the number and sent the .png file. “Thanks ever so, dear.” 

“Thank god for Sherlock Holmes,” Mary sighed when she had gone. “Carla, you need to finish your hair. Are you almost done?” 

“Almost. Yes, done.” Carla stepped back and nodded. “You ought to put the dress on. Do you need help?” 

“Sherlock will help me.” Rising from the stool, Mary patted his arm. “Won’t you?” 

“I will?” 

“Yes. I need a moment anyway. If anything comes up, ask Janine.” Steering him by the elbow, she lead him to a doorway in the far wall and stepped through into a walk-in closet. The dress hung in its shapeless bag on a hook.

Closing the door behind them, Mary leaned against it and sighed. “Ouff.” One hand was on her bare belly, rubbing slow circles on her stomach.

“Are you feeling ill?” Sherlock asked, frowning.

“Just nerves.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, glancing over her. “You were sick earlier this morning.” 

“I’m fine.”

Putting a hand on her forehead, he frowned. “Not apparently feverish. Open you mouth.” 

“Sherlock, I’m a nurse. I can diagnose a stomach bug. It’s just a bit of butterflies.” She caught his hand and squeezed it. “Now, help me on with my dress. We’ve twenty minutes to go.” 

The dress hung in a plastic bag, which crinkled as it was unzipped. The lace and silk gave the illusion of lightness, but the garment was heavy in Sherlock’s hands as he pulled it off the hanger. Mary put a hand on his shoulder for balance as she stepped into it, warm through the fabric of his suit. 

Holding the dress up at her shoulders, Mary turned away, presenting her back, bared in a vee where the dress hung open. “Do me up?” 

There were small fake buttons along the edge of the zipper. Unnecessary. Like everything about the wedding. Extravagant, sentimental, useless. Buttons were useful though. Doing up a fifty delicate buttons would make the occasion seem more momentous, each button another few seconds to delay the ceremony, miniature bastions against the future. As it was, the hiss of the zipper hardly seemed to do justice to the significance of the moment. 

“There you are.” What was one supposed to say at these moments? Oh. “You look… lovely.” 

She turned, frothy skirt swirling around her legs, and smiled at him. “Thank you, Sherlock.” Hooking an arm around his shoulders, Mary arched up in his arms and kissed him. Not at all like the affectionate pecks she had been bestowing since the beginning. This was slow and coaxing, intent. 

Curious, he parted his lips to her teasing inquiries. She kissed differently than John, and tasted of toothpaste. When he lifted a hand and hesitantly cupped her jaw, she sighed and relaxed against him, warm and soft. The other hand was at the small of her back, the lace of her dress rough against his fingers, her body warm through the fabric. 

Clear and prominent in Sherlock’s mind was the knowledge that John must have kissed Mary like this, held her like this a thousand times. This was what John craved and lusted for, what he fell in love with. In less than an hour, John would kiss her like this before the witnesses in the chapel, and bind them forever. 

She was smaller than John, Sherlock’s hand easily spanning the side of her ribcage, but she didn’t feel breakable. There was muscle under his touch as Sherlock swept his hands down her back to her arse. She shivered and made a breathy sound and Sherlock experienced and unexpected spike of arousal. Startled, he drew back.

Mary stroked his hair, grinning. “Alright?”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered. “Of course.” 

She glanced at the clock. “I’ve got to get the girls to finish my hair. You’d best go find John. Give him a kiss from me.” 

Nodding numbly, Sherlock withdrew, closing the door of the closet behind him. 

He found John in the loo, smoothing down his hair with water from the tap. He was a little pale, but his hands were steady. John turned when Sherlock entered. 'This is it.”

Crossing the tiled floor, Sherlock tipped John’s head back and kissed him, hard and brief, leaving John gaping a little, slightly flushed. “From Mary,” Sherlock said tersely. 

John laughed incredulously. “Right. Just when I forget that I’m not having your average white wedding, you two find a way to remind me. What’s this?” 

Sherlock held out the small box he had snagged from the florist on his way from the vestry. “Boutonnières.” 

“Ah, thanks, I’d forgotten-” John broke off as he opened the lid. Inside were a pair of white roses with sprays of baby’s breath, stems wrapped in ribbon. 

“John?” 

John shook his head. “Nothing. It’s- no, not important. Just- awfully… matching, aren’t we?” 

“Problem?” 

“No, no. Course not. Just made me think… Well.” 

Silently, Sherlock tucked the boutonnière into John’s lapel, fingers brushing against the white silk of his shirt, warm from John’s body.

“Here.” John picked up the second rose. “Let me- Wait, you’re… there you are.” John smoothed his hands over the suit jacket, down Sherlocks’ chest. Sherlock stepped away. 

“Ready to go?” John asked.

Of course not. How could he be ready to give John away, even the smallest piece of him? 

Sherlock nodded.  
~

The chiming of the glass cut through the cheerful babble. 

Standing up in front of an expectant, cheerful crowd was strange but their discomfort and growing contempt of him as he spoke were familiar. Of course, that was the intent. 

“The point I’m trying to make is that I am… the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all ‘round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. He took a breath. “So if I was perplexed at learning I was best man, it was because I never expected to… share my life with anyone as I have done with John. Certainly not the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of know. Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. I could never have predicted your enormous worth, to both of us. John, know that today, you sit between the woman you have made your wife, and the man you’ve saved in every way.” He swallowed, “In short, the two people who love and care for you most in the world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down and we have a lifetime in which to prove it.” There. That was obvious, wasn’t it? Was it obvious enough? He had even used the word love- culturally weighted to an unreasonable degree. He’d said it, in front of a room full of witnesses. There was no way John could misunderstand, right? It didn’t matter, he had time to reiterate- the speech wasn’t over. “Now onto some funny stories about John… What’s wrong, what happened, why are you all doing that? John?” Had he misjudged? Why the sniffling? God, it was infuriating! “Did I do it wrong?” 

“No, you didn’t. Come here.” John pushed back his chair and rose, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. “John. The speech John.” It was imperative that he finish, that he be understood. 

“I know,” John mumbled. “Wait till I sit down, alright?” 

“Right.” John had shaved before the ceremony and Sherlock breathed in the familiar smell of his aftershave.

When John pulled away and resumed his seat, Sherlock looked down and shuffled his notecards. Funny stories, yes. First bullet point was the stag night, which of course led into the Mayfly Man case, initially intriguing but ultimately mundane. “Clearly a man seeking to escape the stifling, mundane confines of his marriage with a series of ingenious disguises…” He sensed the silence of the crowd and glanced over at John’s stony face. “Upon reflection, perhaps I should have told you about the Bloody Guardsman. Now there was a mystery.” He rubbed his hands together. It had very nearly distracted him for a full three days. 

Yes, this was a better story. He could sense the crowd’s attention as he told it, rapt as during a particularly good deduction. They gasped as he described Bainbridge’s wound and leaned forward when he described John’s heroism. 

Sherlock finished with a flourish. “Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider a murderer who can walk through walls, a weapon vanished into thin air. But in all of this there is only one thing which is truly remarkable.” Of course, there was only ever one remarkable thing, but no one ever saw- even Sherlock hadn’t realized for months and months, and when he had realized, he hadn’t known what to do- protecting precious things was not Sherlock’s strength, but he had done his best, even when it left him alone, when John was gone and grieving and further from him than the distance of continents. He hadn’t realized until his return that he’d been wrong. But it wouldn’t happen again. That was the point. This was important. “Would anyone like to take a guess?” 

Archie stood up in his seat. “Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes! What if it was the ghost?”

Derailed, Sherlock turned. “The ghost?” 

It didn’t occur to him until the reception was over and the photographer had been cuffed, when the buzzing high of a successful deduction had faded away, that he had never finished what he had meant to say.  
~

Under Sherlock’s fingers, the strings trembled as the last notes of the violin dissipated, unheard under the cheering of the party-goers. John dipped Mary and kissed her, grinning. In a moment, the DJ would put on some intolerable modern track and the watching crowd would dissolve into dancing. Last chance then, to say his piece before witnesses. 

He reached for the mike. 

“If I could have your attention for just a moment. Apologies for earlier, a crisis arose and was dealt with. More importantly, today we saw two people make vows to one another. I’ve never made a vow in my life, and I probably never will again. So here in front of you all, my first- and last -vow. ” He took a breath. “Mary, and John. Whatever it takes. Whatever happens. From now on I swear I will always be there, always. For all…” he swallowed. “All of you. All two of you.” That was a deduction for another time. Couldn’t risk distracting from the point, not after all this effort. “Both of you, in fact. Always. Now, time for dancing. Music, please. Go on, don’t be shy, everyone, just- dance.” He waved his arms vaguely. The notes of some insipid pop love song began on the speakers, and the floor filled up with bodies as he stepped down from the stage. 

Edging through the crowd, Sherlock made his way to where John and Mary stood. 

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mary gripped his arm and stretched up to kiss his cheek.

John clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Just when I think nothing you could do would surprise me.”

“Hardly difficult to surprise you John. Now. Dancing. You two, go on. We can’t just stand here, people’ll wonder what we’re talking about.” 

“Well what about you?” Mary’s voice was thick with emotion, hand still on his elbow.

“We can’t all three dance,” John chuckled. “People would talk.” 

Sherlock stepped back. “Of course.” 

Squeezing briefly, Mary released him. “Save a dance for me, won’t you Sherlock?” 

He nodded as they shuffled off. John ought to have taken him up on his offer of more dance practice- he was reasonably coordinated but lacked confidence, which would improve with time. There was plenty of confidence however in the way John pressed a kiss against Mary’s jaw, whispered something in her hear that made her giggle. 

Sherlock turned to scan the dance floor. All around, strangers were bobbing and bouncing to the dull, repetitive pop music. The familiar faces all appeared occupied. Molly was dancing with her boyfriend, even Mrs Hudson was swaying in time. Near the edge of the dance floor, Janine met his glance and grinned at him. Reasonably sharp woman, Janine. Sense of humor. He started to step toward her when she cut her eyes deliberately to the young man she was dancing beside and flashed him a thumbs up. Ah. 

Turning slowly, he shouldered his way through the undulating crowd, bumping shoulders, and reached the stage. Taking the piece of sheet music, smudged with eraser marks from many rewritings, he folded it carefully and slipped it into the envelope. Dr and Mrs Watson, it said. The end of an era. 

Outside, the night air tasted fresh and cold after the press of people in the hall. The coat was heavy as it settled around his shoulders, the silk lining chill against his skin. Faint strains of music faded behind him as he strode alone into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you are uber familiar with TSoT, you will notice the places I messed with the script and the timeline. I am setting us up to be canon-divergent in more drastic ways in the future.   
> I feel like this chapter took a long time. I can't even use the excuse of real life being crazy, because it hasn't been that bad. I just didn't have energy for this chapter. *shrugs* I hope it turned out anyway.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the wedding night ;)

Sherlock was leaning out the window, smoking his third cigarette of the night, when the cab pulled up to the curb. He frowned, stubbing out the butt on the sill, as the cab door opened and two familiar figures climbed out. The wedding dress billowed in the mild breeze of the summer night. 

Downstairs, he heard the clatter of the door and laughter and a clumping on the stairs, just one set of footsteps- oh. The door flew open and John, arms full of Mary, white dress spilling out of his arms, blazing in the dark. 

“What are you doing back here? I though everything was ready. Did we forget something? Is something wrong?”

“It’s alright, Sherlock.” John lowered Mary to the ground and she slid out of his arms. She was steady on her feet, neither of them appeared intoxicated- good; he should have said something earlier, alcohol was commonly consumed at weddings. Irresponsible. “I changed our reservations after you booked it. John and I wanted to surprise you.” 

“Surprise me?” 

“Yes. Sherlock… Come sit.” She settled on the couch, skirt billowing around her, and patted the cushion beside her. Slowly, Sherlock crossed the room and sat, upright and cautious. Mary took his hand. “We wanted to make sure you understand-“

Sherlock looked away. “I do understand.”

“I’m not sure you do. Anyone could see you’re not happy.” 

Sherlock swallowed. Happy? He had been helpful, patient, indispensable to the process of planning the wedding. He hadn’t been aware he was meant to be _happy_ as well. 

Had he been doing it wrong the whole time? Infuriating. 

“Happy?” he echoed.

She scooped up his hand, cradling it between both of hers. “Listen to me, Sherlock. We didn’t get married to leave you behind. This is my promise to you. I’m not going to take John away from you. I don’t think I could, anyway. You’re part of this, for as long as you want to be.” 

Sherlock was studying the grain of the coffee table intently. “That’s… that’s very…” 

“Hang on. John?” 

Standing by the door, John shifted subtly, shoulders taking on a military set, left hand steady. “We’re not going anywhere. Unless you disappear again. You enormous git.” 

Lowering her voice, Mary leaned forward, smiling. “John wanted to get you a ring.” 

Sherlock’s brow wrinkled. “A ring. A… wedding… ring?” 

“Oh lord.” John put a hand over his eyes. “Mary, I told you not to- you’re right, it was stupid.” 

“Don’t be embarrassed, John. It was sweet. Just, not practical.” She squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “I told him you’d constantly be taking it off for some experiment or other. Anyway, what would we tell people?”

Humming, Sherlock tipped back and stared at the ceiling, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Certainly, certainly,” he murmured. “Oh! Stay there.” Bounding to his feet, Sherlock darted into the kitchen and they could hear rustling and the slamming of cupboard doors.

He emerged tearing open a small square packet with his teeth. For one dizzying moment John thought it was a condom, and his whole body pulsed with a spike of adrenaline. But as Sherlock threw himself down on the couch between them, he saw that it was a disinfectant wipe, the kind they had in the kitchen first aid kit, a folded square in a sealed packet. Shaking back the cuff of his dressing gown, Sherlock extended his left hand, and John saw he had a disposable scalpel clenched between his thumb and fore finger. 

“What the bloody hell are doing with that?” 

Swiping the antiseptic wipe around the base of his ring finger, Sherlock replied, “Scarification. Mary and I were discussing it months ago, for a case. It’s a form of body modification similar to tattooing, not widely known by most of the middle class. The purpose is to leave visible scar tissue for any number of purposes, including decoration. The practice exists in some indigenous cultures, as well as among certain subcultures in the developed world. In this case, it will be an ideal alternative to a wedding band.”

“Please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, “ John said darkly. 

“While modern scholarship disagrees on the original meaning of the wedding ring in antiquity, it has come to symbolize devotion and loyalty, admittedly with implications of ownership in many cases. Mary is quite correct that a ring would be cumbersome to my experiments and noticeable enough to provoke unwanted questions. In some circles, a tattoo is favored as a more permanent alternative to a wedding band, but that too would inspire curiosity. As far as the world is concerned, my best friend is married and I am an unattached man. What business then would I have marking my left ring finger? People are very attached to their notions of normal relationships.” He sniffed disparagingly. “But a scar. Now a scar would be less obvious and could be explained away if need be.”

“I’m not going to let you take a scalpel to yourself, Sherlock. You work with your hands too much. You could do damage.” 

Sherlock nodded. “You’re right. It would be much preferable to have it done by an experienced medical professional.” 

“Right, at least that’s…” John trailed off as Sherlock held the scalpel out to him. “I didn’t mean- I’m not going to…” 

“You’d rather I did it myself?” 

“I don’t- oh for god’s sake. Give it here.” He snatched scalpel out of Sherlock’s hand and popped off the safety cap. Pointing it at Mary he added, “You put him up to this, didn’t you?” 

She widened her eyes. “All I did was mention it, ages ago. It was relevant to a cold case we were discussing.” 

“I was already aware of the practice,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Come on, John. You have to admit it’s the perfect solution.”

John shook his head. “What is it you want me to do?” 

“Three lines, I think. Seems appropriate. At the base of the finger.”

“Alright. Just across the top of your hand, mind. I’m not risking the connective tendons underneath.” Taking Sherlock’s hand in his, John braced it against his knee. He lifted the scalpel and hesitated. “Are you sure? We can take time to- to think about this, if you want.” 

“John.” Looking up, Sherlock met his gaze steadily, eyes dark in the dim room. “I made my vow. I’m going to keep it.” 

“Right. Right.” John took a deep breath. 

The actual incisions were easy- years of experience with field surgery kept John’s hands steady and the depth precise. Sherlock was silent, staring down at the beads of blood welling from the cuts. 

“Alright. Bandage?” 

“John, if you bandage it up and put antibiotic on it, it won’t scar. Entirely defeats the purpose.” 

“Absolutely out of the question. You will put a bandage on it, or so help me, you will sit here while Mary and I go upstairs and have our wedding night. Without you.” He raised his eyebrows. 

Sherlock swallowed. “Bandages are in the kitchen.” 

“I’ll get it.” Mary got up in a rustle of satin and lace, and returned with a bandage and antiseptic cream. Peeling off the wrapper, she bandaged Sherlock’s finger neatly and kissed his knuckles. “There. Now, are there any more reasons we aren’t all in bed right now?”

John and Sherlock shook their heads. 

“Good.” Jumping up from the couch, Mary seized one of their hands in each of hers, and led a strange parade up the stairs, her in her wedding dress, John in his suit, Sherlock with his dressing gown swirling around his legs. 

The upstairs bedroom was lit by the orange light from the street. The window was propped open, a box fan whirring softly, the air was lazy and warm, smelling of the London night. John ran his hands up Mary’s back, fumbling with the clasp above the zipper. 

“Here. Let me.” Sherlock’s fingers found it deftly and undid it. 

The zipper sang in the dark and the dress billowed to the ground. Lifting her out of it, John swung Mary up into his arms and spun her around, before tumbling her on the bed, kissing her breathlessly. Panting, she drew back and held out a hand for Sherlock. He knelt hesitantly on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping. John hooked his arm around Sherlock’s knees and yanked, so that he collapsed with a _whuff_ beside them. 

Looping an arm around each of their necks, Mary arched up to kiss each of them, first John, and then Sherlock. John nuzzled behind Mary’s ear, hands running restlessly over her sides, her stomach and hips. “What do you want to? Anything you want.” 

Breaking the kiss, Sherlock cleared his throat. “I believe it is customary for the bride and groom to engage in intercourse on their wedding night.” 

She curled her fingers at the base of Sherlock’s skull, scratching lightly with her nails. “Are you saying you want to watch us fuck? Want to watch John fuck me?”

Sherlock swallowed. “It wouldn't do for the conclusion of the night to be anything less than traditional.”

“Oh, I think tonight is going to be anything but traditional.” Her eyes were bright and intent with lust. “Take your clothes off, both of you.” Stretching across the bed, Mary yanked the chain on the bedside lamp, flooding the room with yellow light. 

John yanked at the buttons of his dress shirt. Why did the bloody trousers have buttons too? He glanced up and his fingers stilled. Sherlock was standing beside the bed, dressing gown around his feet, sliding his pajama trousers down his long legs. He wore nothing underneath. 

Mary cleared her throat. “You too, John.” Blinking, John focused enough to get his own trousers undone, letting them drop to the ground with a sigh of fine fabric, discarded in a heap. 

Sherlock stood naked, lean and pale in the faint light. He stood at the end of the bed, hands hanging at his sides, prick plump but not erect between his legs, face pink. 

Mary pointed to the headboard. “Lie back.” Kneeling on the mattress, Sherlock crawled to the head of the bed and settled against the pillows, adjusting them behind his back. Mary nudged his knobby knees apart and settled between them, her back against his front, legs spread. Stretching out a hand, she beckoned John. “Do you want to lick me first?” 

“Always.” John’s tongue tarted out to wet his lips, and he seized Mary’s ankles. 

She yelped when he yanked her forward and buried his face in her crotch. “Ohhh, John.” 

Letting her head fall back against Sherlock’s stomach, she rolled her hips against John’s mouth, fingers in his hair. “So good at that,” she sighed. “He gets me so wet, Sherlock. Someday we’ll have to teach him to suck cock. Mmm, you like that. I can feel how hard you are. He’s hard, watching you, John. Watching you eat me out.” John made a muffled whimpering noise and his hips pumped reflexively against the comforter. 

“That’s right. God that’s good. Oh, oh!” John had slipped three fingers inside her, twisting hard. Gasping, she tugged on his hair. “Enough, enough. Condom?” 

John pushed himself upright. His cheeks were flushed, chin slick and shiny, prick standing up red and eager against his stomach. Reaching across her he fumbled in the bedside table. “Got it.” Tearing the packet open, he rolled it on his prick, and knelt between her legs, slipping his hands under her thighs and tilting her hips up. “Ready?” 

“Yes,” she panted. 

“Sure? Our first shag as man and wife?” Grinning, he dragged the head of his prick through the wet folds of her slit. “Really ready?” 

She smacked his arm. “Go on! Just- ah!” In her ear, Sherlock made a pained sound, and his fingers spasmed on her arms as John slid into her with a snap of his hips. “Ohhh, John.” Arching her back, she hitched her legs higher up John’s back and squirmed for a better angle. “Yes, just like that. Oh…” 

John groaned, setting a slow, rolling rhythm. His thighs bumped against Sherlock’s knees with every thrust. When John glanced up he found Sherlock watching him intently, eyes blown black, face flushed, lips wet and bitten red. John shuddered and clutched at Mary’s hips, skin prickling with heat. When he dropped his forehead against Mary’s shoulder, Sherlock’s breath stirred his hair. 

Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off John’s face, except to glance down between their bodies at the wet, shadowed slide of his prick into Mary. His breathing was shallow and fast, and Mary could feel his erection pressed against the small of her back, a little slick at the head where he was beginning to leak. Each of John’s thrusts rubbed his prick against her, and Sherlock’s hands convulsed on her arms, breath hitching. 

Mary ran raked her nails down John’s back, panting, and slid a hand between them. There wasn’t room between them for her to reach touch herself properly. Frustrated, she hit John’s shoulder. “John, John, roll over. I want to ride you.” 

Pulling out, John flopped onto his back beside Sherlock with a groan. Mary straddled him, slipping his prick back inside her easily and circling her hips with a happy murmur. She set a quick snapping pace that made John cry out and clutch at them blindly with both hands. On landed on Mary’s thigh, the other hit sherlock’s chest, John’s fingers scrabbling over his ribs, digging into the lean meat of his stomach, nails leaving red trails, hand slipping down, not finding purchase, to brush against his flushed, leaking prick. Sherlock jerked and groaned. Closing his hand around it John stroked clumsily, distracted. 

Circling her fingers quickly on her clit, Mary threw back her head. “I’m going to come…” John whimpered as she rocked herself through it, her body clenching around his cock. He arched up, his own orgasm rushing toward him, when Mary sat back and pulled off abruptly, letting his wet prick slap against his stomach. “No, John. Not yet.” 

“Fuck, fuck. Bloody christ.” John flopped back on the bed, putting his hands over his face. “Are you trying to kill me?” 

She ran a hand down his side. “Just thought you might want to try something different.” 

“Something different?” Blinking his eyes open, he met her gaze. She raised her eyebrows, trailing a hand up his thigh. 

“What do you think?” she asked softly. “Shall we try something new?” 

HIs tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he nodded. 

Running a hand over his stomach, Mary looked across him at Sherlock. “Do you want to fuck John?” 

Sherlock’s chest rose sharply as he breathed in, and his eyelashes fluttered closed. He said nothing. In the window, the fan whirred. 

John twisted his neck to look up at Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock’s throat clicked as he swallowed. “Yes.” 

“Yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Roll on your side.” Mary tapped John’s hip. “Take the condom off. Lift your leg. Sherlock, open the drawer in the bedside table.” 

The drawer squeaked open, and Sherlock made a soft noise. 

“Surprised?” Mary smirked. “Pass me the lube.” 

“Intrigued.” He handed her the bottle. “I had deduced the vibrator and the dildo but not the plugs.” 

“They’re not always for John.” The cap popped open and she squeezed dollop onto her fingers. 

John lay in between them facing her, back to Sherlock, knee drawn up to his chest. Mary hooked under his leg to reach his arse, pressing two slick fingers against his hole. He exhaled hard as they slipped inside. 

“Sherlock, you’ve done this before?” 

“Anal penetration? Yes.” John clenched around Mary’s fingers. “Not for some time.”

“Slick your fingers up.” The cap popped open and closed and John jolted at the first brush of Sherlock’s fingers, the burn as he slid them in along side Mary’s, and _Christ_ they both had their fingers in his arse… That thought was enough to make his cock jump and drool on his stomach. 

“Now, if you crook your fingers forward- you’ll have to twist your wrist- yes, like that. You know what you’re doing, I see. Not too hard. Just tap, for now. When he’s close, pressing hard will bring him off, but it’s too much to do for long.” John shuddered and trembled, sweat beading on his shoulders, running down his back. 

Sherlock tried to focus on their fingers, remembering the details, leaning what twist and brush elicited what sounds from John, what made Mary hum approval, but he was continuously distracted by the damp gleam of John’s back, the restless shifting of his hips and the way it made the muscles inside him undulate- the silky, nubby texture of his rectum, the red, tender flesh around his hole. 

“I think he’s ready,” Mary murmured. “Are you ready, John?” 

Breathing out hard, John nodded, face buried in the pillow. 

Sherlock scooted closer until their hips lined up. His hands settled hesitantly on John’s side. “Are you sure…?” 

“If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you. Get on with it.” Clutching his leg to his chest, John closed his eyes and breathed out hard as the head of Sherlock’s prick pressed against him. Mary’s arm was crooked awkwardly around his leg, fingers slippery with lube, pressing at his hole, guiding Sherlock’s cock. 

“Just… there,” she muttered. “Now, press forward- slowly! Breathe, John. Shh, shh.” Running her fingers through his damp hair she whispered soothing nothing as he gasped and shook. “There, that’s all. He’s all the way in you. Just breathe. Easy.” Sherlock was trembling, fingers white on John’s hip, face red. “Easy, Sherlock.” 

The three of them lay together, sweating in the yellow light of the lamp, heaving breaths gradually steadying. John’s leg was draped over Mary’s hip, prick pressed against her belly. He had gone mostly soft during the initial press, but hardened again as she fondled him, rolling his balls and thumbing his foreskin back.

“Alright. You can start to move Sherlock. Just roll your hips. Gently!” 

Sherlock whined, hips twitching forward, and John gasped. Mary had a hand in Sherlock hair, cupping the back of his neck, and the other teasing the head of John’s cock, which was leaking between them. “Easy. How’s that feel John?” 

“Good,” John grunted. “Christ.” 

Gripping John’s hip, Sherlock began to move with more confidence. Each minute movement was magnified as John shuddered and bucked in response. 

“That’s right. You’re beautiful, the pair of you. You’re doing so well, John.” She ran her fingers over his cheek, and his eyes fluttered open. His pupils were blown black. “He’s bigger than the dildo, isn’t he? Do you like that? Sherlock’s gorgeous cock, filling you up, fucking you open. You love it, God that’s so hot. He’s leaking everywhere, Sherlock, going to come for you, aren’t you John? You going to come on Sherlock’s cock? Fuck.” She slipped a hand between them, fingering herself. Sherlock’s chest was heaving, eyes glazed and unfocused. “Are you close? John is. Do you want to feel?” Dragging Sherlock’s hand from his death grip on John’s hip, she pulled it down to cup his sac. John jolted, swearing incoherently. “Are you going to come, John? Come for me and Sherlock.” 

She wrapped her hand around his shaft, above Sherlock’s and gave him one firm stroke. John’s whole body convulsed, and he made a strangled noise that was almost a sob as he came across Mary’s belly and the comforter beneath them. 

Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck and whimpered, hips stilling, pressed deep, fingers sliding we on John’s twitching cock. 

The fan in the window clicked and whirred. The warm air of the summer evening stirred sluggishly over their sweaty skin. Sherlock was trembling, John panting. Mary petted each of them in turn, pressing kisses against John’s slack mouth. 

When they finally shifted, both men groaned as Sherlock softening prick slipped out, and he hissed as he pulled off the condom. Wiping her stomach with a corner of the sheet, Mary lay back with a sigh. John rolled onto his stomach and flung an arm over her. On the other side of him, Sherlock lay with his eyes closed, chest heaving, condom discarded on the floor. 

“Someone turn the light out,” Mary mumbled. 

John groaned. “Sherlock’s closest.” 

Lifting an arm to reach for the bedside lamp seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort. The room plunged into darkness, and he collapsed back onto the bed with a huff, curling up against John’s shoulder. As his eyes adjusted he could see the tuft of Mary’s light hair against the pillow, the pale traceries of scar tissue on John’s back- exit wound, messy, field patched. His body was heavy with the chemical rush of orgasm. Rubbing his thumb over the bandage on his ring finger, Sherlock smiled at the sting of the cuts, and let his eyes fall closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA this was meant to be irredeemable porn, but these three are incapable of having sex without feels. Much love to Lisa who has been very busy but who discussed wedding rings and scarification with me.   
> We are reaching the end of this arc. Look out for the epilogue sometime soon!


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've come to the end of this story arc! Have an epilogue. But fear not, there is more to come.

Sherlock clattered up the stairs and burst into the flat. 

“Sherlock?” John poked his head out of the kitchen. 

“Mary still asleep?” 

“Yeah, she’s upstairs. Where did you disappear to? I was worried when I woke up and you were gone.”

“Popped by the shops.” Sherlock tossed a brown paper bag on the table. “Are you making tea? Of course you are. When it boils, make a cup of peppermint for Mary.” Pulling open the bag with a rustle, he pulled out a box of mint tea bags. 

“Why? Peppermint is dreadful. You went out to get peppermint tea for Mary? Are you feeling alright?” John turned, and glanced at Sherlock’s hands. “Sherlock, you took the bandage off.” 

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “John, the point is to irritate the incision in order to promote scarring. Redness and localized infection is a normal side effect.” 

“Sherlock, infection is a serious hazard.” 

“I am at no real risk of blood poisoning, as you know perfectly well. These cuts are hardly deep enough, and made under relatively sanitary conditions. However, if it would satisfy your sensibilities, I will procure some tincture of iodine- effective as an antiseptic but also irritating to tissue.” 

“You’ll let me examine it on a regular basis.”

“Acceptable.” 

“Right. Come here, you daft git.” John grabbed him by the lapel of his coat and reeled him in, leaning up to press a brief kiss against his lips. 

Sherlock stilled, eyes flickering over John’s face as he pulled away. 

“Alright?” John asked. 

“Yes.” Seizing a handful of John’s jumper, Sherlock hauled him close and kissed him fiercely. John stumbled a little when Sherlock released him, blinking. Sherlock whirled away, scooping up the brown bag from the table and bounding toward the stairs. “The tea, John!” he called. 

Upstairs, he pushed open the bedroom door and peered inside. Mary was curled in the center of the bed, under a heap of the comforter. 

“Mary?” He settled on the edge of the mattress. 

Mary groaned and rolled over. “Oh god.” 

“Not feeling well?”

“No. Ugh. Must have been something I ate yesterday.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes.

“I’d like to suggest an alternate cause.” 

“Hmm?” As she shifted to squint at him, he reached into the brown bag and pulled out a discreet blue and white box, rectangular. Mary blinked and focused on it, confusion and then shock registering on her face. “Sherlock?” Her voice rose. 

Sherlock held her gaze. “Increased appetite, change in tastes and cravings. You were sick yesterday before the wedding and thought it was nerves. Last month you missed your period but didn’t worry about it since your cycle has been irregular in the past and you were under stress planning the wedding.” 

“Are you saying… fuck, you are.” She clutched the coverlet. “That’s not- that can’t be- we’ve been careful!” 

“Statistically, contraceptive failures are more likely to occur when-“

“Shut up, shut up! Oh god.” She curled forward, covering her eyes with her hands, and then groaned and straightened, holding her stomach. “Fuck.”

“Mary?” 

“Give me a minute, Sherlock.” She closed her eyes, one hand on her stomach, and visibly slowed her respiration. “Ok. Ok. I’m going to the loo. I’ll do the test. You get John.” Throwing back the covers she pushed herself out of bed. 

“Do you need-“ 

“Just get John!” 

The bathroom door opened and closed. Sherlock leapt to his feet. “John!”

“What is it?” John called. 

“Come at once!” 

“If you need your laptop, you can bloody well walk in here and get it.” 

“No. Come here!” 

There was a clatter from the kitchen, and John stepped into the hallway wiping his hands on his trousers. “Sherlock?” 

Shifting from foot to foot, Sherlock checked his phone. “Four minutes.” 

“Four minutes of what?” 

“Did you make the tea, John?” 

“The tea? Yes I made the bloody tea.” 

“Four minutes thirty. Mary? Mary!” Sherlock rattled the doorknob. 

“You have to wait, Sherlock!” 

“What’s going on?” John asked. He rapped on the door. “Mary? Are you alright?” 

“Hang on!” she shouted. 

“Sherlock, what’s happening?” 

The door opened, Mary was pale in the yellowish light from the bulb over the sink. She held out the slender plastic stick in her hand. 

John’s eyes widened. “Is that…?”

Sherlock plucked it out of her fingers. Two blue crosses showed on the little screen. “As I suspected.” 

“Does this… are you? Mary?” John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist to see the test, and his face broke in a grin. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Mary drew a shaky breath. “I’m going to be a mother. I don’t know anything about being a mother!”

John put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t panic.”

“I’m pregnant, I’m panicking!” 

Sherlock waved his hands. “Stop panicking! You two will be excellent parents.” 

“How would you know?” Mary snapped. 

“Look at all the practice you’ve had,” Mary looked at him incredulously, and he gestured to himself. “You’ll hardy need me around with a real baby on the way.” 

“Sherlock, two members of this family regularly chase armed criminals through the streets. John and I both work almost full time. There are body parts in the fridge and we keep the poisons in the same cupboard as the tea. What about that says that this household could handle an honest to god baby?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “You’re right, some childproofing will be necessary.” 

I haven’t had a pet since I was nine, I kill house plants.” Mary raised a hand, and let it fall to her side again. “ I’m not good at… keeping things alive.

“Well in any case, the statistics for the first trimester are…” 

John held up a hand. “Shut up. Just. Shut up.”

“Sorry.” 

John reeled Mary in and kissed her temple. “We have time to figure things out.” 

“Approximately seven and a half months,” Sherlock interjected. 

“That far along? How long have you known?” John asked. 

She shook her head. “I didn’t know. Sherlock noticed.” 

“How did you notice before I did? I’m a bloody doctor.” 

“You’ve been busy. Are still busy. If I’m not mistaken you have a train to catch.” 

Mary put a hand over her eyes. “Oh god, I feel sick just thinking about getting on a train.” 

“We won’t go. Just breath. We’ll cancel and stay home.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course I’m sure.” He rubbed her back. “It’ll be a lovely rest.” 

“You’re grinning. Why are you grinning?” 

“I’m happy. Am I not meant to be happy that my wife is pregnant?” 

“We haven’t talked about kids at all!” 

“We did a little, before we got engaged.” 

“That was ages ago! Before Sherlock came back!” 

Sherlock stiffened slightly. “Of course I’m aware that my presence will be burdensome with the addition of a child, I will certainly-” 

“Shut up, shut up!” Mary waved her hands. “Sherlock, you’re going to be a great father, I’m the one I’m worried about.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Father-?”

John gripped Sherlock’s arm in one hand and rubbed circles on Mary’s back with the other. “We _all_ have time to get used to the idea. Sherlock, go call the hotel and cancel our reservation.” He wrapped an arm around Mary’s shoulders and she leaned against his chest. “I made tea, and I’ll bring it up, and then we are all going back to bed.” John pressed a kiss against Mary’s temple. “When you’re feeling better, we’ll order take out. How’s that sound?” 

Mary leaned up to kiss John and caught Sherlock’s left hand in hers. His hand twitched as her fingers brushed against the scabbed cuts at the base of his ring finger. “Sounds perfect.”

LA FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who left kudos and comments this whole time. I am still overwhelmed by the enormous amount of positive feedback I have gotten about this. It would not have been completed without all of you. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have writing it. I love you all so much. 
> 
> I know some of you are on tumblr, and if anyone is interested, my username is stillwaterseas.
> 
> And now, go check out the first chapter of the continuation!

**Author's Note:**

> TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK. TELL ME IF YOU WANT MORE. Tell me where you think this should go! I don't know, I'm still writing, I'm open to suggestions! HAPPY SHERLOCK EVERYONE.


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